Adamant and Starlight
by CorvetteClaire
Summary: Draco disappears from Hogwarts and returns mysteriously, unable to say where he's been. Now Harry will lose him to his mother, or much worse, if he can't find out what happened to him during those missing days. SLASH WARNING! Sequel to Thicker than Blood.
1. Prologue: Flying

**Author's Note:** Here, as promised, is the sequel to _Thicker than Blood_ (well, the first two parts of it, anyway…). This story stands mostly on its own plot-wise, but there are lots of details that won't make much sense if you haven't read the first one. This is also, like it's predecessor, a Slash romance. There isn't much actual romance in it – it's mostly action/adventure and angst – but consider yourself warned. There be snogging boys here!

I've been asked by a couple of people where these stories fit with _The Order of the Phoenix_, and the answer is, they don't really. I wrote all of TTB before the latest book was released, and I outlined this one pretty thoroughly. Since TTB is based on the pre-OotP canon, and this fic is part of that same larger story, this one will also ignore some rather huge plot developments from OotP. As you'll discover, if you read on, OotP contributed a lot of useful background material for places and things that I had already decided to use, and I've gratefully mined it for details. But for the purposes of this story, Certain People are still alive, the Centaurs are not openly hostile to the wizards, Lucius is not under arrest, etc.

So here we go… The prologue is just a bit of fluff to give you an idea of how Harry and Draco spend their time. Chapter One gets things started in earnest. Enjoy!

-- CorvetteClaire

***** *** *****

**Prologue: _Flying_**

The sky had darkened to indigo, and a scattering of pale stars were beginning to show. In the failing light, the gaily-colored stands and rings of the Quidditch Pitch were nothing but looming shadows, painted in shades of grey, and the two figures flying among them merely a blur of movement. They flew with the speed and grace of natural skill, reveling in their freedom, whipping through the chill air until their faces glowed and their hands grew numb, untroubled by the gathering night. 

Harry pulled his Firebolt to a halt and turned to find Draco. He carried his school bag slung over one shoulder, stuffed with pine cones, and he pulled one out as Draco sped toward him. A flick of his wand sent the cone flying toward the other boy, then made it break into a series of spectacular aerobatics. 

Draco took off after it like a shot. He chased it twice around the pitch on an erratic course and caught it just before it dived under the stands, snatching it out of the air with flashing, adamant fingers. Then he spiraled upward, his hand raised in triumph.

As he flew past Harry in a wide, graceful arc, he tossed the pine cone to him and called, "Satisfied, Potter?"

"So you caught one," Harry shouted back. "Big deal! You destroyed the last three!"

In the month or more that Harry had been helping Draco train, they had tried a number of different Snitches. The first and simplest were small rocks, but when Draco grabbed one out of the air and accidentally crushed it to powder, Harry decided that they needed to work on control as much as accuracy. He didn't know it for a fact, but he suspected that there was some kind of rule against squashing the Snitch into a winged cufflink. It would be frowned upon, at the very least. So they had looked for objects that required some delicacy on Draco's part - ping-pong balls (very hard to come by in the wizarding world), dung bombs (very messy when handled roughly), and on one memorable occasion, ink bottles. 

Harry had finally settled on pine cones when he stumbled across a pile of them in the trees behind Hagrid's cabin. Relatively clean, easy to find in bulk, delicate enough to require careful handling, and light enough not to hurt if they hit something they shouldn't. Under Harry's guidance, they made very respectable practice Snitches, and the sap wiped right off of Draco's adamant fingers when he, inevitably, smashed them.

"Pay attention, this time," Harry scolded, as he readied another pine cone.

But Draco wasn't paying attention. He was idling along on his broom, staring upward, watching a shooting star draw a bright streak across the sky.

"Draco!" He still got no response. "Hey, you Slytherin git, pay attention!"

"You have no poetry in your soul, Potter. How can you sit there, shouting insults at me, when the stars are falling?"

In answer to this, Harry sent his pine cone flying straight at the other boy. It struck Draco smartly in the head, then bounced away. Draco, with the lightning reflexes of an experienced Seeker, snatched the pine cone out of the air and deliberately crushed it. As he held up his hand and let the bits of wood fall from between his glittering fingers, he grinned at Harry, his teeth a flash of white in the darkness.

"You asked for it, Gryffindor!"

Harry gave a derisive hoot and sent his Firebolt into a screaming dive, a split second after Draco launched himself in Harry's direction. 

"You'll never catch me!" Harry shouted, waving to the other boy over his shoulder. "That broom is _sooo__ slooooow..."_

Draco could not possibly keep up with the Firebolt, and they both knew it, so he pulled out his wand and pointed it at the rapidly retreating form of the Gryffindor. "Come back here, or I'll hex you!"

Harry obediently swept around and sped back to where Draco sat on his Nimbus, fuming. "I'll bet I could have outrun your hex, too."

Draco grinned at him. "Why do you think I'm letting you train me? I'm going to learn all your secrets, 'til I can out-fly, out-think _and out-class you. And then I'll kill you, slowly and painfully. Death by pine cones."_

"I thought you were training to get your position on the team back, before that slug they have playing Seeker destroys Slytherin's chances at the Cup."

His smile twisted into a sneer. "She already has. Besides, you don't think they'd actually take me back, do you?"

Harry heard the very real bitterness in Draco's voice and let the banter drop. He knew that Draco desperately wanted to regain his place on the Slytherin team - almost as badly as he wanted to beat Harry - and that he stood little chance of succeeding. It wasn't that he couldn't play anymore. He could. But even if he were to hone his skills 'til he could trounce the famous Harry Potter into the ground, his fellow Slytherins would never willingly take him back. They would rather suffer humiliating defeat in front of the entire school than win just one game thanks to Potter's Plaything.

"Let's try one more round," Harry suggested, reaching for another pine cone.

"It's too dark to see the Snitch!" Draco protested. Talk of the Slytherin team had clearly spoiled his good mood, and he sounded petulant.

More as a way of amusing Draco than because he thought it would work, Harry held up the pine cone and tapped it with his wand, muttering, "_Incendio_."

The cone burst into merry flame. Harry, unprepared for the eagerness with which it burned, gave a shout of pain and jerked his hand away. The flaming cone dropped toward the grass with Draco in hot pursuit, while Harry sucked his singed fingers and glared at them both. Draco caught the small fireball just before it hit the ground, nipping it out of the air with crystalline fingers that did not feel the flames. Then he soared back up to where Harry sat, cradling it in his palm. 

"Do you _have_ to burn down the stands?" he asked, as he casually crushed out the fire.

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

Draco wiped the soot and hot sap off his hand on his trousers, grimacing at the sticky mess. He was only a few feet away from Harry, close enough that the Gryffindor could see him clearly. His hair, eyes and skin were so pale that they seemed to collect the last glimmers of light, to shine with the mingled gold and silver of sunset and moonrise. As always, Harry found that he could not take his eyes from the other boy's face or hide the infatuation in his own. 

Draco glanced over at him and read his expression easily. His smile flashed again, and he lifted his head to gaze at the stars now burning more brightly above them. "Are we done?"

"With what?" Harry asked, his body suddenly too warm for comfort and his face flushed.

"Quidditch practice."

"Do you have something better to do?"

"Look at the stars." His eyes turned on Harry, so intent that he could feel their touch like hot breath on his skin. "Ever since Christmas Eve, I love looking at the stars."

Harry swallowed once and stated, firmly, "We're done. 

He brought his broom around in a tight curve, circling Draco and pulling up to his left, so close that their knees brushed together. Then he headed for the stands and the grounds beyond with Draco beside him. 

They landed side-by-side, and almost before their feet had touched the ground, Harry's arm was around Draco's waist. The Slytherin moved willingly into the Gryffindor's embrace and lifted his lips to meet his kiss. Harry was, as always, forceful and generous at the same time, taking what Draco offered without hesitation, giving back the heat his partner never asked for openly. But Draco's delight in his touch was plain in the way he melted into the taller boy's body, leaning all his weight trustingly against the support of Harry's arms across his back, and losing himself in the hungry kiss.

Harry pulled away, not because he had any desire to end the kiss, but because he wanted to take it somewhere more private, where he could finish what he had started. Draco did not move, but still leaned against his arms with his head back, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes nearly closed. Only the tell-tale gleam from beneath his lashes betrayed that he was watching Harry's face.

"You're not looking in the right place for stars," Harry murmured.

"You always make me see stars, Potter."

"You silver-tongued devil, you." Harry slid a hand up his back to cradle his head and bent to claim another lingering kiss. "I'm thinking the top of the North Tower would be a nice spot for stargazing..."

"Eleven o'clock? Bring your own butterbeer?"

"Oh, no. I'm not waiting 'til eleven, and I can do without the butterbeer." He reached for the broomstick that still hovered beside him, poised at just the proper height, and said, "We came out here to fly, so let's fly."

He did not let go of Draco, but swung his leg over the Firebolt while holding the other boy firmly to his side. When Draco stretched out a hand for his own broomstick, Harry protested, "Leave it! We'll fetch it later." He gave a suggestive tug with his arm and added, "Climb on."

Draco grinned and mounted the Firebolt nimbly, in spite of the fact that it hung too high in the air for him. Sliding tightly against Harry, he wrapped his arms around the Gryffindor's waist and commented, "Do you know, I've never ridden a Firebolt?"

"Really? Then we'll have to do this more often. Hang on!"

The Firebolt soared abruptly away from the ground, swooping and turning under Harry's expert guidance. Draco gave a whoop of excitement and let go of him, spreading his hands wide to feel the wind against his body as they flew. The North Tower loomed ahead of them, but Harry did not take a direct path to its top, choosing to put his broom through its paces and show off for Draco a bit. They circled the tower, moving so fast that the many windows were a liquid blur, then swept over the courtyard and out toward the lake. Finally, Harry headed back for the Tower, spiraling up and up in lazy curves, until he brought them to a precise stop on the parapet.

Stepping off the broom to the stone rooftop, Draco flung himself down on his back, arms wide, eyes shining up at the stars beginning to thicken in the sky. "That was brilliant, Harry! God, I love to fly!"

"So do I." Harry knelt beside him, gazing down into his face with an admiration he made no effort to conceal. "I love it even more when you're with me."

"Sentimental drip," Draco remarked, pleasantly. He eyed Harry for a moment, then asked, "How is it we always end up in the same place?"

"On the Tower?"

"No, with me flat on my back and you looking at me like I'd make a tasty meal."

"I wasn't exactly thinking about food..."

"What are you thinking about?"

"I'm not going to tell you. You're in too prickly a mood tonight."

"Prickly! You're the one who hit me with a pine cone, then lit another one on fire. All I've done is fall for your lines... again. _A good place for stargazing..." he mocked, in a fair imitation of Harry's voice. "Give me a break!"_

"Well, isn't it?"

"That's not the point."

"The point is that I need some new pick-up lines."

"No. The point is that I'm wise to you, Perfect Bloody Potter. You're nothing but a low-rent Romeo with a really fast broom."

Harry cocked his head to one side, his smile turned wistful. "And _you_ are a puffer fish."

"A what?"

"A puffer fish. One of those, funny-looking, flat fish that blows itself up like a porcupine when anything gets too close to it."

"You're making that up. There's no such thing."

"Is, too. The Muggles call them puffer fish, but I think I'll have them renamed malfoys."

"Oh! Just have them renamed, will you?"

"I have connections at the Ministry of Magic," Harry said, haughtily.

"Connections, as in, lots of enemies?"

Harry did not dignify this with a response. "When I'm a fat, balding, middle-aged wizard with seven kids, I'm going to take them to the aquarium and show them the tank full of malfoys. 'Look at that, Harry Jr.,' I'll say. 'See that funny-looking fish there, that's got all those pointy things lying down flat against its body? That's a malfoy.' And Harry Jr. will say, 'Why do they call it that, Dad?'"

"And you'll say, 'Because I'm the prat who told them to, son!'"

"And I'll say, 'Because there was once a famous wizard...'"

"Famous?"

"'...who slunk around looking flat and sleek and slimy, just like a fish. But when he got scared or mad... Poof! He'd blow up like a balloon with spines sticking out every which way.' Then I'll tap the glass and scare one of the fish, and it'll puff itself up into a spiky balloon. 'See that, son? That's just what he did, that fishy wizard. And his name was Malfoy.'"

"And Junior will say, 'Wow, Dad, that's the dumbest story I ever heard!'"

"'Maybe, son, but it's the truth. I knew that wizard at Hogwarts, and I've got the puncture wounds to prove it. His prickles were poisonous, but I eventually developed a tolerance for Malfoy poison...'"

"Not to mention a taste for prickles."

"Oh, yes." Harry unfastened his cloak and tossed it aside. Then he lay down next to Draco, propped on one elbow. "I've become a glutton for punishment."

"Now who's a silver-tongued devil?"

"You are."

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but Harry quickly leaned in for a kiss, stifling whatever caustic remark hovered on the tip of that silver tongue. Draco was eager for him, warmed by the excitement of flying and the laughter of their shared jokes, primed by the heat of his touch. And Harry needed only the taste of passion on Draco's lips to reach the same fever pitch in an instant.

"My beautiful, poisonous Malfoy-puffer fish..." he mumbled, lovingly, as his hands moved to open the other boy's clothing.

Draco did not bother to respond to this flagrant bit of sentimental drivel. Instead, he concentrated on helping Harry with the various clasps and hooks on his clothing that all seemed to stick when he was in a hurry. Harry nibbled lightly along his jaw, making him squirm in an agonizing, enchanting way, then whispered, "Some day, I'll make you say it... that you love me..."

"Shut up, Potter!" Draco groaned, as Harry's hands finally reached bare flesh.

Harry laughed, nipped his ear teasingly, then took that marvelous, fascinating, incendiary body in his arms and pulled it tightly against him. For once, he was happy to let Draco have the last word, since all he wanted in this world was to kiss him. To kiss him, and kiss him, and go on kissing him... To make love to him until he set whole constellations burning in those ice-grey eyes...

His gaze locked with Draco's, and both of them knew that the games were finished. The heat thickened in the air between them. A telltale sheen of gold fire flickered over the planes of Draco's face. And Harry moved with tormenting slowness to capture the Draco's mouth with his.


	2. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Chapter 1: _Be Careful What You Wish For_**

Harry came reluctantly awake, staggering up from a warm and lovely dream, to find the castle still asleep around him. The tower room was utterly quiet, and the new light had barely begun to penetrate his closely-drawn bed curtains. He blinked at the red draperies that hung above his head, struggling to bring his mind into focus and remember why, exactly, he had awakened so early.

Snaking one arm out from beneath the blankets, he reached under his pillow and pulled out his watch. Six o'clock. It was six o'clock on a Saturday morning, and no sane person would be awake at this hour. He stuffed the watch out of sight and burrowed his arm under the covers again. It settled naturally around the shoulders of the body lying against his, his fingers curving against one smooth, slightly cool arm.

Six o'clock. Harry groaned softly and closed his eyes, willing himself back to unconsciousness. What insanity had possessed him to wake up at this ungodly hour, when he had only fallen asleep a few hours ago? How could he possibly deal with the veritable mountains of homework he had to do, if his mind was clogged with exhaustion and his body too tired to move? He had to draw up a massive Astronomy chart, research his History of Magic thesis, dice nightshade roots to and set them to soak in armadillo bile for his revealing potion...

"Bloody Hell," he mumbled, plunging his hand beneath the pillow once again. This time, he brought out his wand and waved it at the curtains that hung so precisely around the bed. "_Finite incantatem."__ They ruffled slightly, as if caught by a passing breeze, then fell still. Harry pushed the hanging fabric aside to reach the glasses on his bedside table and shoved them onto his face. _

Grabbing his companion's shoulder with a good deal less gentleness than before, he shook it and hissed, "Wake up!"

He received no answer, and the body resting half on top of his did not stir. Giving an exasperated sigh, he pushed the blankets down to expose a tousled, white-blond head lying on his chest. 

"Come on, Draco, wake up! We've got Quidditch practice!"

Draco answered without lifting his head or opening his eyes. "I don't."

"Well, I do, you lazy sod. And if I don't hurry, I won't have time for breakfast."

"Don't let me stop you," Draco murmured, still without moving.

"Gerroff!" Harry growled, trying with a notable lack of success to sound threatening.

Draco finally bestirred himself enough to lift his head and rest his chin on Harry's ribs. "I don't think so."

"Trying to undermine Gryffindor's chances at the Quidditch cup? That's low, even for a Slytherin."

"No." He grinned at Harry, his winter eyes alight with mischief. "Trying to hang onto my bed warmer as long as possible."

"Is that all I am to you? A heat source?"

"There are worse things to be." He lay down again, with a yawn, and tightened the clasp of his arm around Harry's waist. "Don't be a prat. It's cold out there."

Harry couldn't decide whether to be annoyed with Malfoy for delaying him or tempted by the thought of an extra half hour in a very warm, very welcoming bed. He could get up and chase Draco back to the Slytherin dormitory, before anyone in Gryffindor tower woke up, or he could stay in bed and enjoy a reprise of last night at the expense of his breakfast. Either way, he was going to have something to regret, later in the day.

With a chuckle, Harry scrunched down in the bed, pulling himself under the covers. He knew better than to try to lure Draco out from under all those blankets, once he had retreated into them. So if he wanted some attention, he'd have to bring himself down to Draco's level... literally.

He found Draco lurking well under the blankets, in the warm darkness, perfectly willing to wake up if Harry was willing to join him down there. He was chronically cold in the Hogwarts castle, and once he had settled down to sleep, he tended to stay buried, head and all, where no stray breath of cold air could touch him. Harry couldn't sleep that way. It was too airless and uncomfortable. But he did enjoy lying with his head on the pillow and Draco wrapped around him, pirating his warmth, like some kind of sleek, bipedal, oddly affectionate boa constrictor. And absolutely nothing got his day off to a better start than burrowing down under the covers to find his cold-blooded love awake and feeling playful.

Draco was smiling when Harry kissed him. A smug, self-satisfied, annoying grin, Harry was sure, but in the darkness it hardly mattered. Besides, Harry didn't intend to let him wear it for long. He made short work of the smile and very good use of his half hour. When he finally popped his head out from under the blankets again, sucking in a great breath of fresh air, he was quite certain that even Draco the Deep-Freeze could not still feel cold. Whatever Draco was feeling, he was chuckling to himself and planting kisses on Harry's bare midriff that tickled unbearably.

"Okay, now you really have to stop that," Harry insisted, lifting the edge of the blanket to glare down at the other boy. "I have practice, and I can't be late!"

Grey eyes met his with a look of supreme innocence. "Go on, then. I'll keep the bed warm for you."

"Out, Malfoy. I mean it. You can't stay here."

"I'm not getting out of this bed until it's at least ten degrees warmer out there. And that's final. Besides," he yawned hugely, "I'm tired."

"You aren't serious..."

"Go away, Potter. You annoy me."

"And _you_ are lying in _my bed! _In the Gryffindor tower! With four boys who would love an excuse to hang you upside down by the heels from a tenth-floor window for a couple of hours! In the all-together! If you really want to experience cold..."

"They won't even know I'm here. Go on to your Quidditch practice, and if you're really lucky, I'll still be here when you get back."

"I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Nonsense. What could go wrong?"

Harry laughed, in spite of himself. It wasn't that he had any illusions of secrecy. The entire school knew that Harry Potter was shagging Draco Malfoy, and all of Gryffindor House knew that they sometimes came to the tower to do it. But Harry went to great lengths to keep Draco's presence as unobtrusive as possible. He made sure that the Slytherin came and went under the invisibility cloak, and only when everyone was asleep. Once they were safely in Harry's bed, they spelled the curtains closed and protected themselves with a muting spell that even blocked out Neville's snores. Harry's roommates loathed this arrangement, but as long as it only happened once in a while and Malfoy did not waltz openly through the common room, they were willing to pretend they didn't know.

This morning, Draco seemed determined to thumb his nose at the Gryffindors, and Harry couldn't think of a good way to stop him, short of throwing him bodily out of his bed, which would take more resolution than he possessed and create enough of a stir to awaken his roommates. Looking down into his beautiful, smug face, Harry could do nothing but groan, shrug, and surrender. If Malfoy ended up being thrashed by the sixth-year Gryffindors, that was his problem. Harry had tried his best. 

He disentangled himself from the clutch of the boa constrictor and rolled out of bed, not without a pang. Draco was right. It was cold out here. But Harry was used to getting dressed quickly in the early hours, pulling on his clothes every which way to get some layers between him and the chill air. He hurried into his practice gear, then he pulled on his warmest cloak and shoved his wand into his pocket. When he was ready to go, he twitched the curtains open and banished the muting spell. Draco lay under the blankets, only a few strands of his pale hair showing where they trailed up the mattress. Harry pulled back the covers ruthlessly.

"Cut it out," Malfoy mumbled, trying to burrow back into the warmth.

"If you think I'm going to walk out and leave you in my bed without even a goodbye kiss, you're mad," Harry whispered.

"I'm mad. Give me back the covers."

Harry laughed softly and bent over to claim his goodbye kiss. Draco gave him back as good as he got, because even when messing with Harry's mind, he could not hold himself aloof from Harry's kisses. But when Harry straightened up, he was instantly cool and superior again.

"Better toddle off to practice, Potter. You're going to need it when you play Slytherin next week."

"Dream on, Malfoy," he retorted, genially. "And cover yourself with the invisibility cloak, at least. Not that I care or anything, but if Seamus sees you in there, he'll pound you to jelly."

Draco did not bother to come up with a witty response. Shoving a hand under the pillow, he pulled out the invisibility cloak and let its silver folds spill around him. In a moment, only his head showed above its collar.

"I hope you freeze something important off, you git," he said, sleepily, as he pulled the cloak up over his head.

"You won't say that tonight," Harry laughed. 

He pulled the curtains closed, making an effort to rumple them up, so no one would suspect he was trying to hide anything behind them. Then he collected his broom and headed for the door, turning back only once to look at the inscrutable red hangings that concealed Draco. With a small sigh of regret for the loss of his warm bed and sleeping love, Harry pulled the door shut behind him.

*** *** ***

Ron stumped back up the stairs to the dormitory, angry with himself for forgetting his cloak and wasting time with a trip up to the tower. He flung open the door and strode over to his bed. The cloak was on the floor under it, where he'd thrown it last night, not bothering to fold it and put it away. As he stooped to fish it out, he let his eyes stray to Harry's bed. And he froze.

There, hanging innocently from beneath the bed curtains where the sleeper had obviously flung his arm over the edge of the mattress, was a hand. A hand made of adamant.

Ron straightened up slowly, his cloak clutched tightly in one fist. The air hissed between his teeth and a red haze of rage clouded his eyes. Stalking over to Harry's bed, he threw back the curtains and stared down at the empty mattress. Except that it wasn't empty, and that arm falling out from under the covers proved it. He twitched back the covers, but still he saw only the mattress, wrinkled sheets, and an arm. One sweep of his hand pushed back the invisibility cloak as well, and Ron stared down, enraged, at Draco Malfoy's sleeping face.

_This is it!_ Ron fumed, his fists clenching and unclenching. _This is the bloody limit! _Not only had Harry brought Ferret Boy into their room. Not only had he done whatever sickening things it was he did behind these curtains. But he had left his slimy Slytherin squeeze alone in the tower after he'd gone, and wearing his father's invisibility cloak into the bargain! It didn't matter that Malfoy was dead asleep, no threat to anyone in this condition. What mattered was that Harry had betrayed the trust of his fellow Gryffindors. 

Ron had made what peace he could with Harry's choices, over these last months. He did not criticize. He asked no questions. When he met Harry and Malfoy around the school or sat with them in the stands at a Quidditch match, he was brusquely polite to Malfoy. But he said as little as possible to Malfoy outside of Harry's company, and he would die a horrible, painful, miserable death before he called the Slytherin a friend.

He could still remember how he'd felt, coming back from the Christmas holidays and realizing, at a glance, that Harry had done the unthinkable - and with Malfoy, of all god-awful people. It still made Ron shudder. Not so much because Malfoy was a boy, though that was seriously weird in its own way, but because he was _Malfoy_. It had been one thing to accept Harry's feelings for the other boy in the abstract, when faced with Harry's wounded eyes and obvious suffering. But this was not abstract. This was Harry - his very best friend in the whole world - lying in the same bed with Draco Malfoy and enjoying it.

And that was the final, rather sickening, word on the subject. Harry was happy. He loved that obnoxious, arrogant little piece of… well, Ron couldn't even _think_ what Malfoy was, without breaking every rule of good manners his mother had ever pounded into him! And he couldn't do what he longed to do – hurt and humiliate Malfoy so badly that he'd never show his face in front of a Gryffindor again – without hurting and humiliating Harry as well. But oh, it was tempting!

Planting his hands on his hips, Ron fixed his most threatening glare on Malfoy and snapped, "Wake up, Ferret Boy!"

Malfoy stirred and yawned, drifting slowly awake.

"Wake up, and get your skinny, Slytherin arse out of my room!"

The other boy's eyes opened, and if he was disconcerted to find Ron standing over him, glowering, he didn't show it. Blinking once or twice to clear the sleep from his eyes, he smiled wickedly up at the Gryffindor and drawled, "Good morning to you, too, Weasley."

"You've got exactly thirty seconds to get up and dressed, before I make it a _really_ good morning by knocking your teeth out."

Draco cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

"Yes!"

"I'm just trying to spare your delicate feelings..."

"_Move it_, Malfoy!"

He shrugged with elaborate unconcern, then slithered out from under the blankets to stand, stark naked, in front of Ron. The malicious twinkle in his eyes, as he sauntered to the end of the bed to flip open Harry's trunk, dared the Gryffindor to react.

Ron ground his teeth and refused to look away. Malfoy was baiting him, and he'd be damned if he'd show that it was working. So he ordered himself not to blush and kept his gazed fixed on Malfoy's face. Of course, he could not completely ignore the rest of him, and he privately had to admit that the Ferret was nice to look at. Good thing for all concerned that Ron didn't lean that way, or he'd be feeling jealous of Harry in yet another aspect of their lives. But as it was, Ron had no inclination to envy his friend. In fact, he felt sorry for him. 

"Trying to move the merchandise, Malfoy?" he said, his voice pleasant.

"Why would I bother, when I know you don't have the cash?" Malfoy retorted.

"Oh, I have cash enough. What I don't have is the impulse to buy."

Malfoy shot him a grin over the raised lid of the trunk. "That makes two of us, Weasley."

"Then why the floor show?"

Now Malfoy turned on the innocent look, all the more ludicrous under the circumstances, and Ron almost laughed out loud in spite of himself. "You said thirty seconds, right? Well, I may be good in bed, but thirty seconds?" He spread his hands helplessly, the adamant one glinting in the morning light. "I need to see the buttons to fasten them that quickly."

Ron actually did laugh. He couldn't help it. Then he felt an instant surge of anger against Malfoy for making him let down his guard. "I should think you'd have plenty of practice by now," he snarled.

Malfoy smiled sweetly at him, as he stepped into his trousers and pulled them up. "It's much easier to get buttons open than closed, especially in the dark. And I usually have help."

"Some day, Malfoy, I'm going to damage that smirking face of yours permanently!" Ron said through his teeth.

Draco put on his shirt, then he, very quickly and neatly, pulled his long hair back into a black rubber band at the nape of his neck. A single lock escaped to fall over his forehead, catching in his eyebrow, and Ron reached up to scratch his own face in that exact spot. Draco smiled at him, the wickedness in his eyes dancing, and Ron blushed.

"You're not very good at hating, Weasel. None of you Gryffindors are. It's a definite character flaw."

"I manage to hate you quite easily, thank you. And your thirty seconds are up, Ferret Face."

"Are you going to knock my teeth in?"

"Don't tempt me."

Malfoy sat down to pull on his boots, then he rose and swept the regally to the door. "Try not to miss me too dreadfully," he purred, as he ducked out and pulled it closed behind him.

Ron waited until the door had shut, then he sank down on Harry's bed with a sigh. There were times when he wondered if it didn't take more effort to hate Malfoy than it would to give in and accept him. Then there were times when he thought he'd rather be sliced up and stir-fried than to even consider it. Today, he simply wanted some peace. One lovely, restful day, in which he could pretend that Harry was still Harry and the world still spun in the proper direction. Just one day without Malfoy.

*** *** ***

It looked as though Ron might get his wish. The day had started off with an unpleasant dose of Malfoy, but the Slytherin did not show so much as a single bleach-blond hair through the rest of it. This was a Hogsmeade weekend, and Ron had intended to go with his mates to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. But when he discovered that Harry planned to stay in the castle and study in a vain attempt to catch up on his homework, while Malfoy went into Hogsmeade without him, Ron abruptly changed his own plans. 

He stayed in the common room for the day, sharing a table with Harry and struggling over his Astronomy charts. They didn't talk much, but it felt good anyway. And when they went down to lunch, they had a whole stretch of the Gryffindor table to themselves. Ron didn't mention his encounter with Malfoy that morning. He didn't say the evil M-word at all. Instead, they discussed Quidditch and exams and how unimaginably horrible Snape was being this term.

They spent the afternoon with Hagrid, drinking tea, gnawing inedible scones, and tramping through his vegetable patch in search of some rodents that had been nibbling on the vines. After that, they flew around the Quidditch pitch for a bit, just to feel the wind in their faces and see the ground streaking by below them. All in all, it was a perfect day.

The Gryffindors who had gone into Hogsmeade were home again by dinner time. Everyone was in a lighthearted mood, and the talk around the table in the Great Hall had them all laughing. Harry joined in with the rest, and Ron privately thought that his best friend had not seemed so much a part of the group in ages.

His eyes slid over to the Slytherin table and saw that Malfoy was not there. Hermione must have followed his glance, because she dug Harry in the ribs and asked, innocently,

"Where's Malfoy?"

Harry glanced up and around. When he saw that Malfoy was not seated at the Slytherin table, he shrugged and said, "He must have eaten in Hogsmeade. Why?"

"No reason. I just wondered. I didn't see him anywhere in the village."

Harry shrugged again and returned his attention to his food, Malfoy apparently forgotten in the fun of the lively meal. Ron couldn't help grinning at this turn of events. Not only was Malfoy absent, but he was unlamented, and as far as Ron was concerned, this was a very good thing. 

He wasn't so sanguine about it the next morning, when the Gryffindors once again noticed Malfoy's absence at the Slytherin table. Harry had slept alone last night, much to Ron's secret satisfaction. Now they were seated in the Great Hall, stuffing their faces with scrambled eggs and buttered toast, and Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

Harry didn't seem exactly upset, but he looked over at the other table more than once, and Ron caught him frowning. When Hermione – trust Hermione not to let sleeping Slytherins lie – once again commented on his empty seat, Harry gave her the same indifferent answer as the night before, but Ron was not fooled. 

As they got up from the table to leave, Ron leaned close to Harry and muttered, "Why don't you just go find him?"

Harry was startled by this, unused to having Ron even acknowledge Malfoy's existence unless forced to it, but he shook his head. "It's Sunday. He's probably sleeping late."

"It's already late," Hermione pointed out.

Harry rolled his eyes. "What is it with you two? You can't stand Draco, but you never miss an opportunity to play matchmaker for us."

"Do you need a matchmaker?" Hermione asked, her eyes sharp with suspicion.

"No, we do _not_. Draco is minding his own business, which is what I intend to do and I wish you both would do, too. We're not strapped together with Spell-O tape, you know!"

"Could have fooled me," Ron grumbled. But he let the matter drop and let Harry go back to his homework without further comment.

Dinner that night was the same. No Malfoy, Harry staring glumly at the Slytherin table, and Hermione nagging him to find out where his boyfriend had gone. Harry ate his meal without noticing what he put in his face. Then, without bothering to tell either of his friends what he planned, he suddenly got up from his seat and marched across the room to where a wall of Slytherins sat, glaring at him in hostile silence. Ron scrambled to catch him, unwilling to let him face that ominous horde alone, though he hadn't a clue what he could do to help if it came to blows. 

Harry confronted the Slytherins with the air of a man facing his own firing squad, but Ron could tell by the mulish set of his chin that he was not going to back down, no matter how many holes they drilled in him with their eyes. Scanning the faces for a hint of sympathy, Ron was sorry to see that Crabbe was not among them. Crabbe was the only Slytherin who still spoke to Malfoy voluntarily, which put him in much the same position as Ron – attached to one half of a couple while hating the other half. It was an uncomfortable place to be, and Ron felt a certain affinity for the hulking great lunkhead who shared it with him.

Slowly, insolently, one of the biggest Slytherins rose from the bench to loom over the Gryffindors.

"What do you want, Potter?"

"I'm looking for Malfoy. Do you know where he is?"

The boy laughed, a harsh sound that grated on Ron's nerves. "What makes you think we're going to tell you anything?"

"Do you know where he is, or don't you?"

"If you can't look after your toys, don't come crying to us."

A dinner roll came flying from a skillful hand and struck Harry in the side of the head. That elicited more ugly laughter and a hissed obscenity that made Ron's ears turn a furious red. He grabbed Harry's sleeve and tugged on it. "Come on, Harry. These goons won't help you."

"Where is he?" Harry demanded, his eyes narrowed and glinting with anger.

The enormous boy grinned, showing too many teeth. "Potty Potter lost his pet! Go find yourself another one, Gryffindor, and better keep him on a shorter leash next time!"

"Bugger off, Potter!" another shouted.

Very deliberately, Harry turned and stalked away. A chorus of gibes followed him, punctuated by a few pieces of thrown food and a great deal of laughter, but Harry ignored it with a cold, aloof superiority that would have done Malfoy proud. Ron hurried after him to the Gryffindor table, where Hermione met them. That she was angry Ron saw at a glance, but he didn't know how angry until she cut loose with a torrent of words.

"Those filthy, rotten, hateful, jealous _swine!_ How could they say those things to you? _You?!_ Harry Potter?! How many times do you have to save their foul hides and their fouler families, before they learn to treat you with respect?! I ought to hex the lot of them! Throwing food. Throwing _food at you, like you were some kind of…"_

"Hermione, please. Give it a rest," Harry said, tightly.

"It's disgusting. _They're_ disgusting! Dumbledore should have kicked the lot of them out at Christmas! At least Millicent and Pansy were honest about what they really are! This lot just hang around the castle, pretending to support the Headmaster, and then treat you like that!"

"What do you expect?" Harry's face was hard, twisted with a combination of bitterness and worry that made him look shockingly old. "I took away their Crown Prince and turned him into…"

"Don't say it," Hermione snapped. "Don't you _dare say it!"_

"What's the difference? Everyone else in the castle says it, every chance they get." He suddenly spun on his heel and headed for the door, moving blindly, by instinct alone, and so quickly that Ron and Hermione had to run to keep up with him. As they stepped out of the Great Hall and into the relative quiet of the entryway, he seemed to wilt before their eyes. In a small, desolate voice, he asked, "What if Draco finally listened to them and decided he'd had enough?"

"You think he's _hiding_ from you?" Ron spluttered. 

"You don't believe that, Harry," Hermione said, flatly.

Harry stopped at the foot of the stairs, reaching out one hand to clutch the marble banister for support. "I have to."

Hermione and Ron exchanged a baffled look. 

"I'm missing something," Ron said. "You _want Malfoy to throw you over and disappear?"_

"If he isn't hiding from me, then where is he?" Harry glanced over his shoulder at Ron, giving him a glimpse of the raw pain in his eyes, then turned away again. "I can't even think about it. It makes me want to throw up, or…"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione sighed.

"I can't." He shook his head, as if to banish an unwelcome thought, and went on furiously, "He's mad at me. He's hiding. Somebody gave him a black eye, and he's too vain to let me see it! He got drunk in Hogsmeade and is sleeping it off in a _brothel! I don't care __why he's doing it, but he's doing it deliberately! _He_ __has to be!"_

With that, he bolted up the stairs two at a time, leaving Ron and Hermione to stare at each other in bewilderment.

*** *** ***

The sound of the portrait snapping closed startled Ron out of a light doze. He jerked awake and looked around in confusion, noting that the fire had burned down to nearly nothing and the clock on the mantel read nearly one o'clock. The room was empty, the entire tower wrapped in a sleeping quiet, but he had definitely heard the sound of the portrait shutting.

Suddenly, there was the rustle of light fabric, and Harry was standing in front of him, invisibility cloak hanging from one hand. Ron blinked at him, glanced again at the clock, then sighed. He had seen Harry leave earlier – much earlier – and guessed where he was going, but he had not expected to see him back in the common room 'til morning, unless…

"You didn't find him."

Harry shook his head and moved tiredly over to the chair opposite Ron's.

"Where have you been all this time, then?" Ron asked.

"Looking everywhere I could think of. Waiting on the…" He broke off and swallowed uncomfortably. "Someplace I was sure he would come."

"What about the dungeons?"

Harry's face tightened, making him look even more grim and tired than before. "They changed the password."

"Maybe that's a good sign! Maybe it means they're hiding him, and they want to keep you out!"

"Or maybe they did it so Draco can't get in, either." He slumped back in the chair and rubbed his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. "All I know for sure is that he isn't any of the places he should be."

Ron had no idea what to say. Harry was in a kind of pain he didn't understand, over something he didn't accept, and he had no clue how to make it better. His first impulse was to assure him that Malfoy was playing games with him and would be back when he got bored, but that meant painting Harry's lover as someone cruel enough to put him through hell for fun, and even Ron didn't believe Malfoy would do that to Harry. But if Malfoy wasn't messing with Harry's mind, then he was in real trouble. 

Finally, he mumbled, in a weak attempt at humor, "He'll be back. He's like a virus – nothing gets rid of him."

"I don't want to get rid of him," Harry whispered.

"I know. I'm sorry. I was just trying to…"

"If he'd only stayed in the tower, this wouldn't have happened!" Harry cried, cutting him off. "Why did he leave? Why?!"

Ron stirred uncomfortably. "Er, the tower? What tower are we talking about, here, exactly?"

"Our room! He was in our room, asleep, when I left for Quidditch practice on Saturday morning! If he'd stayed there, he'd be safe now. He said he'd wait for me. He made a joke out of it, teasing me, but that's what he _meant_. So why did he leave?"

"I… I might have had something to do with that."

Harry jerked upright in his chair, weariness giving way to suspicion, and his eyes narrowed. "What kind of something?"

"Well, I kind of… threw him out."

"You did _what?!_"

"Oh, come on, Harry. What did you expect me to do? I found a Slytherin asleep in your bed – and don't tell me he's been there before, because I bloody well know it, but not alone – so I told him to clear off. I couldn't very well leave him there!"

"You saw Malfoy in the dormitory, and you didn't tell me. I bet that was a lovely scene, complete with insults and shouting and maybe a black eye or two, huh? Is that why you didn't say anything, Ron? You were afraid to tell me that you'd broken his jaw and thrown him out a tenth-floor window?"

"I didn't touch the little git!" Ron protested. "Sure, we insulted each other a few times, but what's the point in talking to Malfoy if you can't insult him? He was unbruised and as arrogant as ever when he left. And I didn't say anything, because I do _not want to spend my weekends talking about Ferret Boy!"_

"_Don't call him that!_" Harry snarled and flung himself out of the chair, headed for the portrait hole. 

"All _right! I'm sorry! I won't do it again."_

Harry halted at the portrait hole and turned back to face him, his entire body stiff with outrage. "I'm not going to do this with you anymore, Ron. I don't have to apologize for who I am or what I feel. And I don't have to listen to you insult someone I love."

"I said I was sorry."

"That's not good enough."

Ron spread his hands helplessly. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to treat Malfoy like a person, instead of a disease."

Ron set his jaw and took a deep breath, bracing himself. "Done," he said, firmly.

Harry took a cautious step toward the fire, doubt written plain in his face. "It isn't just the Ferret Boy thing. It's all the insults and digs and jabs, the way you mutter under your breath every time I mention his name, the way you roll your eyes and make faces and complain…"

"I get it."

"I can take that crap from anyone else, but not from you. Not my best friend."

"I said, I get it." As Harry slowly sank down in his chair again, Ron offered him a crooked smile and added, "The truth is, I'm getting kind of tired of hating Malfoy. It's a lot of work."

"Then why do you work so hard at it?"

"Because you are my best friend and he's… well, he's Malfoy. It's hard to deal with my best friend ditching me to be with someone like that." Harry opened his mouth to protest, and Ron flung up a hand to forestall him. "I'm not insulting him! I'm trying to explain! Think, Harry. Remember how _you_ felt about him up until a few months ago, and how he's treated me all these years. I don't have your… your connection to him, so it's not so easy for me to just erase all that."

"I know."

"I thought I was okay with it, back before Christmas, when you were eating yourself alive over him. I meant all the things I said then. But when it went from just talking to the real thing – watching you with Malfoy every single day, knowing what you were doing when I wasn't there to see – it turned out I wasn't so okay with it. I've been trying really hard. A lot harder than you know. And I've taken a lot of flak from people like Seamus and Lavender for defending you when they start in on Malfoy. But I guess I wasn't trying hard enough and for that I'm honestly sorry."

The anger had drained out of Harry, leaving him limp and exhausted. Ron almost wished he'd erupt in another burst of offended dignity, just to put a little color and life back in his face. Instead, he slumped back in the chair and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. "I'm sorry, too."

"No, you were right the first time. Don't apologize anymore." Ron gazed at him for a moment, seeing the weariness and despair in him, then said, gruffly, "You should go to bed. Get some sleep."

"I can't."

"He's going to come back, Harry."

"Not if he's dead."

Harry's words fell like lead between them, striking the floor with an ominous thunk.

Ron goggled at him for a moment, then blurted out, "_What?!"_

"Voldemort's got him, or his father, or the Dementors, or someone else who wants to hurt him."

"You don't know that! Why would you even think it? Why would they _want_ to hurt him?"

"Because I love him, and nothing I love is ever allowed to survive. Ever." Harry stirred, lifting his head again to gaze at Ron with eyes so raw with pain that the other boy flinched at their touch. "He's dead, or he will be soon, and it's my fault."

A hundred protests crowded into Ron's mind, a hundred explanations and excuses, but he uttered none of them. The look in Harry's eyes and the cold lump in his own stomach told him that it was true. And suddenly Ron knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he did not want Draco Malfoy dead – for Harry's sake and for his own. Much as he detested Malfoy, he had grown used to his presence, rather like his mother's dreadful sweaters piled up in his trunk. Life without Malfoy would be like life without a Weasley sweater – incomplete and rather cold.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "We?"

"I'm still your best friend, aren't I? And that means I watch your back, like I did today with the Slytherins. So what are _we_ going to do?"

"Go to Dumbledore. He'll find Draco, if anybody can."

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning, if Draco doesn't show up at breakfast."

"Why wait? Don't you think Dumbledore would wake up to hear this from you?"

"Yes, but we aren't sure that Draco is actually missing."

Ron chewed that over for a moment, then nodded. "Right. He could still be hiding in the dungeon."

"Or the Slytherins could be playing a nasty joke. But either way, he won't miss classes tomorrow. If he doesn't turn up at breakfast, we'll know it isn't a prank and he's in real trouble."

"Okay." Ron eyed him narrowly and asked, "Are you sure you can wait that long?"

"I can wait, but I can't sleep. Go on upstairs, Ron. I'll just sit here."

Ron squared his shoulders and declared, stoutly, "I'll sit with you. Best friends, right? I've done worse in the name of friendship than lose a night's sleep!"

The two boys curled up in their overstuffed armchairs to wait. Ron was asleep in minutes, snoring happily, but Harry did not sleep. He sat in complete stillness, watching the fire burn down to ash, until the sky lightened outside the windows and he heard stirring in the rooms above him. Then he got up and headed for the shower, where he stuck his head under the hot spray long enough to wash the cobwebs from his brain.

Ron was still asleep when he came down from the dormitory, dressed and as close to groomed as he ever got. It wasn't until the Creeveys descended upon them that Ron finally woke up. Colin greeted Harry cheerfully, then teased Ron about putting in all-nighters, and by the time he had chattered for a few minutes, the room was swarming with Gryffindors in various stages of wakefulness.

Harry fell in at the back of the group headed to the Great Hall, with Hermione frowning at him on one side and Ron yawning on the other. As he entered the Hall, his eyes went automatically to the Slytherin table. No Draco. But Crabbe was there, and before Harry could find his own seat at the Gryffindor table, Crabbe was on his feet and plowing through the room toward him. 

Harry met him between the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. By silent agreement, they dropped their voices and moved toward the back of the room, away from curious ears.

"I hear you had trouble with the Slytherins last night," Crabbe muttered.

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

Crabbe glared at him, but there was little hostility in the look. Harry had gotten used to the fact that a glare was Crabbe's only natural expression other than blank stupidity. "So you don't know where Malfoy is, either?"

Harry's stomach contracted in fear. "No. I… I tried to get into the dungeon to look for him last night, but…"

"He isn't there. He hasn't been there since Saturday morning, when he left for Hogsmeade."

A quick look at the head table told Harry that Dumbledore was not there. Neither were Snape and McGonagall, which made the knot in his stomach tighten. "We have to tell Dumbledore." 

He glanced at Crabbe and got a nod of agreement from him. Then both boys turned together and strode out of the room. Harry just had time to wave Ron back and to see him sink, glowering, onto the bench before he slipped out the door with Crabbe.

They met McGonagall and Snape leaving the spiral staircase to Dumbledore's office, just as they reached it. Snape cast Harry a look of loathing but strode off without speaking. McGonagall gave him one of her signature tight-lipped frowns and said, "Go on, Potter. He's expecting you." Then she, too, hurried off down the corridor.

Harry swallowed his rising panic and stepped past the gargoyle, onto the moving staircase. Crabbe followed him, sliding reluctantly past the statue just as it moved to resume its place and nearly catching his cloak in it.

"I really hate this thing," he muttered.

Harry didn't answer. He was too busy remembering his own words to Ron last night and wishing that he could be wrong. But he wasn't wrong, and the presence of McGonagall and Snape confirmed it. Something dreadful had happened to Draco. While Harry had skulked about the castle, obsessing over his mandrake roots, something truly awful had happened to Draco. And now Dumbledore was going to tell him what it was, and Harry would have to stand there and listen, knowing all the time that it was his fault. 

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Harry walked into the Headmaster's office in a fog of guilt and despair. He saw Dumbledore rise from his seat behind the desk and cross the room to them, and he saw the genuine worry in his keen, blue eyes. Harry's heart turned over with a lurch.

"Come in and sit down, boys."

They traipsed over to the desk and took the chairs Dumbledore offered them. Crabbe clutched the arms of his so tightly that Harry wondered they didn't snap into matchsticks.

"I know why you are here," he went on, in a serious voice. "Professors McGonagall and Snape have already spoken to me about Mr. Malfoy's disappearance."

"Do you know what's happened to him?" Harry whispered.

"I do not. But I intend to find out. When was the last time you saw him, Mr. Potter?"

"Early Saturday morning, in the Gryffindor tower. But Ron saw him leave later that morning, and he was fine. He was going back to the Slytherin dungeon."

"And you, Mr. Crabbe?"

"I saw him in our room after breakfast. He was getting ready to go into Hogsmeade."

"Did either of you go into the village with him or see him there?" Both boys shook their heads. "Very well." Dumbledore sat back in his chair, frowning slightly. "Clearly, Hogsmeade is the place to start. I will set inquiries afoot – discreet inquiries – as to who might have seen him there."

"It's been two days," Harry said. "Anything could have happened in two days!"

"We would have looked for him sooner, had we known there was a need." Dumbledore eyed Harry over the top of his spectacles, his face inscrutable, and said, "Mr. Malfoy has been rather hard to keep track of this term."

"And it's no secret to anyone where he spends all his time," Crabbe growled, glaring at Harry. "We all thought he was with you."

"I thought he was in the dungeons!" Harry cried, panic once more bubbling up in him. "If I'd known he wasn't, I'd have gone looking for him two days ago! Please, Professor, you have to find him! You have to, before…"

"Before what, Harry?"

Harry swallowed, his eyes sliding over to Crabbe and then back to Dumbledore. "Before Voldemort does."

To his mingled relief and horror, Dumbledore accepted this statement without argument. "You realize, I am sure, that he likely already has."

"Oh, God, it's my fault!" Harry lifted his hands to cover his face, his fingertips pushing under his glasses and digging into his eyes in a furious attempt to hold back his tears. 

"Your fault?" Crabbe demanded. "What have you done to Malfoy, you little…?"

"The Dark Lord has problems with Mr. Malfoy that have nothing to do with you," Dumbledore cut in, silencing Crabbe's outburst. "Do not start blaming yourself for Voldemort's actions, or for Draco's, for that matter."

Turning to Crabbe before Harry could respond, he said, "You may go to class, Vincent. I'll keep you informed of what we learn, and I'll ask you not to discuss Draco's disappearance with anyone. The less gossip around the school, the better for everyone involved."

"Everybody already knows," Crabbe mumbled.

"Be that as it may, you will not feed the rumors. Understood?"

"Yes, Headmaster." Heaving himself to his feet, Crabbed ambled toward the door. He shot a hostile look at Harry as he went, but Dumbledore's presence kept his tongue between his teeth. Neither Harry nor Dumbledore spoke until the door had shut behind him.

Then Dumbledore leaned his elbows on the desk and pinned Harry with his sharpest, most implacable gaze. "As for you, Harry, you are confined to the school grounds until further notice."

Harry jumped in surprise. "What?"

"You may not leave the grounds for any reason. You may not leave your common room after dinner, without permission from your Head of House and a faculty escort. If you are caught breaking the smallest school rule or undertaking the most innocent late-night excursion, I will place you under guard. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry swallowed convulsively and asked, "Why? What have I done?"

"Nothing, yet, and I'd like to keep it that way." His face did not soften or his gaze waver, but the edge left his voice. "I know you only too well, Harry, so I am taking immediate steps to curb your natural tendency to run headlong into trouble. Losing one student is bad enough. I don't want to go hunting for two of you – especially not this particular two. You must believe that I will do everything in my power – _everything – to find Draco, and you know that my resources are much greater than yours. Trust me in this. Help me with any information that you have. But _do not_ make my task the harder by putting yourself in needless danger!_

"I'm asking you, because I respect your strength and integrity. But I am also telling you. I will tolerate no infractions of my rules. None. Nor any from your friends."

"I understand."

"Excellent." He sat back once more, and this time, his face softened with affection. "We'll find him, Harry."

"Alive?"

The lined, wise old face turned suddenly sad. "I don't know, but we'll find him. Now, off you go. You're late for Charms."

Harry rose to his feet and moved numbly toward the door. He murmured a farewell to Dumbledore, though the words did not penetrate the fog in his own mind so he had no idea what he said. The door opened for him, he heard Fawkes give a musical call, then he stepped into the stairway and let it carry him downward.

The corridors were deserted. Crabbe had not waited for him. Harry had half expected to find Ron and Hermione lurking by the gargoyle to waylay him and was grateful that they were not. He started down the hallway toward the stairs, his eyes fixed blindly on the middle distance and his feet carrying him forward without conscious direction. Suddenly, as he rounded a corner, he stopped.

Very slowly, Harry fell against the wall and let his legs crumple beneath him. He slid down to sit on the floor, drawing his knees up tightly to his chest and burying his face in them. Then he began to shake.

**_To be continued…_**


	3. Stargazer

**Chapter 2: _Stargazer_**

The next week passed more slowly than any of Harry's life. He attended classes, he practiced Quidditch, he did his homework, and he ate on a semi-regular basis, but none of it pierced the fog of shock and misery that surrounded him. Hermione and Ron quickly gave up trying to talk to him, but they appointed themselves his guardians. One or both of them were always at his shoulder, making sure he got where he was supposed to be or deflecting the unwelcome attention of other students. 

As always, the secret was out and all of Hogwarts knew that Malfoy had disappeared. Theories were thick upon the ground, the most popular being that he had grown tired of Potter's attentions and gone home to his Death Eater father. But far more lurid and unpleasant suggestions soon drove out the simple ones, and Hermione, who for all her hard-headed practicality had a fair bit of imagination and a soft heart, often had to cover her ears or duck down another hallway to avoid hearing conversations that made her positively queasy. Harry did not flinch or run away from the rumors. He ignored them, more concerned with the very real, very possible fears in his own head than with the wild fancies of children who had never touched true evil.

With the end of class on Friday afternoon, the Easter Holidays began and the dour stone castle was instantly filled with the sound of laughter and celebration. The Gryffindors hurried away from the dungeons and double Potions – always the nastiest part of the week – so relieved to be free of both Snape and his foul Slytherins that they were shouting with near hysteria by the time they reached the upper castle. 

Harry trudged at the back of the group, flanked as always by his faithful shadows, too numbed by days of worry and exhaustion to care that Snape had given him zero marks for his revealing potion. Ron, who had also failed the lesson, looked as dejected as Harry, but Hermione was full of outrage at Snape's obvious persecution of her friend. She strode along at his side, eyes snapping and jaw set. 

"That was our worst Potions lesson, yet!" she exclaimed, as they stepped out of the dark stairwell and into the entry hall. "Snape is being blatantly unfair!"

"So what else is new?" Ron grumbled.

"Harry's potion was _much_ better than Malcolm Baddock's! His wasn't even the right color, and he obviously had not pickled his nightshade root properly. _Anyone could see that. Harry's was just a little too thick is all…"_

"Honestly, Hermione, haven't you figured out that Snape hates Harry? When has he ever _not hated Harry? Why should today be any different than every single Potions class we've ever had?"_

Hermione flushed. "Because Harry's upset, and Snape knows it."

"Right. So he goes for the jugular."

"The other teachers are being nicer to him, even the brainless ones like Trelawney. Why can't Snape give him a break?"

"Because he's Snape," Ron said, flatly.

"Because he blames me for Draco being gone," Harry interjected, in a dead, hollow voice, "and he hates me even more than ever. When Draco's here, he hates me for being close to him. When he's gone, he hates me for chasing him away."

"You didn't chase him…"

"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione!" Ron cried in frustration. "You keep expecting people like Snape to be reasonable, to think the way you do, and it just isn't going to happen!"

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly, cutting off her retort, and her eyes grew suspiciously bright. "This is just horrible," she whispered to Ron, but loudly enough that Harry could not miss it. "Everything is ruined, and we can't do anything to fix it."

Harry shut his eyes for a moment, trying to blot out all awareness of his friends. They meant well. They wanted to help. But their constant dogging of his footsteps and muttered discussion of the disaster that was his life only rubbed salt in wounds that were already too painful to bear. He had to get away from them, get out, and soon. He had stayed obediently in the castle for five endless days, doing nothing, waiting for Dumbledore to bring him the news that Draco was dead. Well, enough was enough, and Harry did not intend to sit idly by while Voldemort – or Lucius Malfoy, or whoever was doing this to him – shot his life down in flames. Again. 

He lengthened his stride and took the marble stairs two at a time. Ron and Hermione hurried to keep up with him, exchanging looks that said they had felt the change in his manner and knew something was in the wind, but Harry ignored them. His thoughts were fixed on the tower room, where his invisibility cloak and his broomstick waited for him. Tonight, when his faithful shadows were asleep, he would put on his cloak, take his trusty Firebolt, and go looking for Draco, as he should have done a week ago. And Dumbledore would just have to catch him, if he wanted to lock him up.

* * *

When the summons to Dumbledore's office came, Harry was sitting in the common room, staring into the fire. All around him, the Gryffindors were in high spirits, blowing off steam and making a great deal of noise before they settled down to a week of intensive studying, and when Professor McGonagall climbed through the portrait hole, it took a moment for anyone to notice. Hermione spotted her first and nudged Parvati in the ribs with an elbow. Parvati gave a squeak of warning, and the room fell eerily quiet.

McGonagall glanced around to locate Harry, then she crossed the room under the eyes of the entire House. Harry did not look up until she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"The Headmaster wants to speak to you, Potter."

The blood drained from Harry's face, leaving him a sickly grey color. McGonagall gave his shoulder a squeeze and said, "Come along."

He rose numbly to his feet and followed her back out of the portrait hole. As the Fat Lady swung into place, he heard the common room explode behind him. 

"Is it Draco?" Harry asked. "Have they found him?"

McGonagall shook her head, her eyes harder even than usual. "No."

Harry stumbled as he walked, his legs suddenly too weak to hold his weight, and McGonagall caught his arm to steady him. "I thought you were going to tell me he was..."

"Hush, Potter." To Harry's utter amazement, her arm went around his shoulders comfortingly. "We all know how hard this is for you, and we're all grateful that you're handling it so well."

"_Well?!_" Harry shrieked.

"You've followed the Headmaster's rules to the letter, and please believe me when I say that this has taken a huge burden off his shoulders. He's doing everything he can to find Malfoy, calling in favors, mobilizing the entire Order, setting his spies in the Ministry, absolutely everything. And the only thing that allows him to focus so much of his time and attention on Malfoy is his certainty that you are safe. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you are doing the very best thing you can for Mr. Malfoy."

Harry swallowed the bitterness in his mouth and rasped out, "How did you know that I was thinking of sneaking out of the castle tonight?"

McGonagall flashed him a sharp, measuring look. "I didn't know it, but I know _you_ well enough to know that your patience is wearing thin. If it weren't tonight, it would be tomorrow or the day after." She halted and pulled him up short, the clasp on his shoulder now hard enough to hurt. "Make no mistake, Potter. The Headmaster means what he says. If you try to slip out of the castle, or even go for a midnight stroll under the invisibility cloak, he won't hesitate to put you under guard until we find Malfoy."

"If you find him."

"We'll find him, one way or another." Harry gave a choke of pain, and McGonagall started down the hallway again, her face grim. "Don't underestimate the Headmaster, and don't give up hope. But don't forget that this is war, either."

"How could I possibly forget?"

McGonagall's answering grunt might have been one of laughter, disgust or sympathy. Harry couldn't tell, and her face betrayed nothing. They did not speak again, until the door to Dumbledore's office swung open. 

"In you go, Potter," she said. 

Harry stepped into the room to find Dumbledore standing behind the desk, smiling at him. "Come in, Harry. Sit down."

Harry obeyed, trying not to look too nervous as he sat down in an ornate, wing-backed chair across the desk from the Headmaster. He had expected to find Dumbledore angry, ready to flay him with those piercing eyes of his and demand to know what fool notion had gotten into his head that he would consider leaving the castle. Instead, he found the old wizard looking rather worn and tired but perfectly affable. The blue eyes, which could freeze him with a glance, were twinkling behind their half-moon spectacles. 

Dumbledore waited until Professor McGonagall had taken the other armchair, then he propped his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together, and regarded Harry over the tops of his glasses. "Where were you planning to go, tonight?"

Harry opened his mouth, shut it without speaking, and swallowed uncomfortably.

"You must have had a destination in mind. Where would you look first?"

"Malfoy Manor," Harry answered immediately.

"He isn't there."

Harry looked flustered. "Are… are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"It's a big place. There are cellars and tunnels under the house…"

"And catacombs that go back to pre-Christian times. I know. We have looked, Harry. I've had my eye on Malfoy Manor since the day Lucius Malfoy disapparated just outside the Hogwarts grounds, and I can state with absolute certainty that Draco is not inside the Manor. Where else would you look?"

Harry had not thought much beyond getting out of the castle, and he had not considered what he would do if he didn't find Draco at the Manor. Prompted by Dumbledore's question and the steady, expectant gaze fixed on him, he thought about it now.

"The homes of the other Death Eaters?"

"I have sent members of the Order to search the home of every known Death Eater and several suspected ones. The Aurors have been working round the clock to locate and question anyone who might know of Draco's whereabouts. If they know, that knowledge is protected by spells strong enough to block our most skilled questioning."

"What does his mother say?"

The blue eyes gleamed at Harry. "We can't find her."

"And Lucius…?"

"Never resurfaced after the siege and his abrupt disappearance."

"Draco is with them."

"That seems most likely."

Suddenly, Harry began to tremble. He locked his hands together and crushed them between his knees, fighting to keep himself under control, but the surge of hope in him was so powerful it threatened to burst his chest open. In a shaking voice, he whispered, "Then maybe… maybe he's all right. I mean, if he's with his parents, maybe they took him somewhere to keep him safe."

Dumbledore did not answer him, and Harry stared at him, mouth going dry as hope turned to panic.

"You don't think he's safe, do you?"

The Headmaster sighed. "Ask yourself this, Harry. Would Lucius Malfoy leave his master's service and go into hiding to protect his son?" Harry shook his head. "Would Narcissa?"

"M-maybe. It's possible, isn't it?"

"Possible, yes, but not probable."

"She's his _mother!_" Harry cried.

"And Lucius Malfoy's wife. The truth is that we don't know enough about Narcissa to judge what she might or might not do for her son. She has always remained in the background, the quiet but staunch supporter of all her husband's choices. We do not believe she is a Death Eater, but she certainly knows that Lucius is and gives no sign of opposing him. Will she defy both Lucius and Voldemort for Draco? I simply don't know."

Harry felt hot, angry tears forcing their way through his lashes. He despised himself for crying, but he couldn't help it. Too many emotions had come at him in rapid succession, always ending in fear and despair. His chest ached as if the Blood Link were still there, stretched to the breaking point, tearing out his heart, and he wished desperately that it was true. If he couldn't have Draco back here with him, safe and whole, then he didn't want his heart anymore. He didn't want to go on breathing and thinking and remembering and blaming himself for bringing death to yet another person he loved.

"Headmaster." It was McGonagall speaking for the first time. Both Dumbledore and Harry looked at her, and she nodded toward the wall behind Dumbledore's chair. 

The Headmaster turned swiftly to the large fire that burned on the hearth at his back. "Ah! Right on time! Thank you for stopping by, Sirius." 

"Sirius!" Harry jumped out of his chair, rounded the desk in two hasty steps and dropped to knees on the hearth. There, floating in the fire, was the disembodied head of Sirius Black.

He gave Harry a lopsided smile that warmed his dark, hollow eyes, and said, "Hallo, Harry."

"Sirius." The tears were still coming, and Harry had to swallow several times before he could speak properly. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Me, too, but you look awful."

"I haven't been sleeping too well."

"Or eating or changing your clothes regularly."

Harry grinned and sniffled. "No."

Sirius frowned. "Dumbledore should have contacted me sooner."

"But… is it safe? Using the floo network, I mean. Doesn't Voldemort have it watched?"

"Probably, but we aren't telling secrets. Don't worry, Harry. I won't do or say anything to risk your friend's life."

Harry sank back on his heels, his eyes pleading with the man hovering before him in the flames. "You're looking for Draco?"

"What else would I be doing?"

"And Professor Lupin?"

"Him, too. All of us."

"I'm scared, Sirius."

Black's gaunt, angular face softened, and his eyes were full of understanding. "I know."

"I wish you were here. I need to talk to you."

"I'll come when I can, but I'm needed here, coordinating the search. You have to be patient, Harry, and you have to trust us."

"I do trust you, but I can't just sit here and wait. I have to _do _something."

"You are doing something. You're keeping yourself alive and out of You-Know-Who's clutches. That's more important than anything, Harry. Or anyone."

"Not to me, it isn't."

"Then it's a good thing we're having this chat. Let's get this straight, once and for all. You, Harry Potter, are the single most powerful weapon we have in the fight against the Dark Lord. It sounds cold and brutal to say it that way, but it's the truth. Without you, we might as well all line up to get our Dark Marks."

"There are lots of people fighting him, lots of people who can…"

"You know better than that. We need you."

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. "I need Draco." He let those words hang in the air between them for a long, agonizing moment, then he whispered, "Find him for me, Sirius. Please."

"I'll do my best, but you have to do something for me."

"What?"

"Get some sleep. Take a shower, change your clothes, have a decent meal, and _stay in the castle_. Agreed?"

Harry hesitated for a long moment, then nodded. Sirius tried to smile, but it came out crooked and Harry had to look away to keep from crying even harder. 

"I'll see you when I can, Harry. I'm really sorry about all this, and I promise to come to Hogwarts just as soon as possible."

"Come when you find him."

"I will." Sirius' eyes shifted to Dumbledore. "Headmaster, there's definitely something happening among You-Know-Who's supporters. It seems they're planning a ritual of some kind for the Equinox. My sources are vague, to put it mildly, so we haven't found the location yet, but we'll keep looking."

"The Equinox is in three days. That doesn't leave you much time."

"I've put our sharpest eyes and ears on it. They'll let me know the minute they learn anything."

"Do what you can and keep me informed."

"Right. I'd best be off. Harry?"

"Yes?" Harry said.

"Remember our agreement."

"I will." 

"And try not to worry. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Sirius disappeared with a pop, leaving only mundane, orange flames behind him. Harry stared at the place where his head had been, wondering how he was supposed to follow his godfather's final piece of advice, until Dumbledore roused him with a hand on his arm.

"Professor McGonagall will take you back to your common room now, Harry."

Harry obediently climbed to his feet, mumbled a goodnight to the Headmaster, and followed McGonagall out of the room. She didn't say anything, and Harry found her silence comforting. He couldn't talk about Sirius or Draco, and he didn't want to discuss his own behavior. Thankfully, McGonagall seemed to think he'd been chastised and guilt-tripped enough for one night. She walked him through the castle and up to the Fat Lady's portrait without uttering one word of reprimand.

Harry gave the password and stepped through the portrait hole, turning to bid Professor McGonagall goodnight. But to his surprise, she climbed through the hole after him. The rest of Gryffindor House was still madly partying in the common room, and the chaos seemed to have reached new heights in his absence, but the room fell quiet once again at his entrance. 

Into that unnatural silence, Professor McGonagall said, "I'll need your invisibility cloak, Potter."

"What?"

"Your cloak. I'll need to keep it, for the time being."

"But…" Harry stared at her in blank disbelief, a hundred protests crowding into his brain but none of them making it all the way to his lips. "But, Professor…"

"It will be perfectly safe in my office."

"I'm not going to use it!"

"Then you won't miss it." She fixed Harry with her beady eyes and added, quietly, "It did not slip my notice that you never gave your word, either to Snuffles or to the Headmaster, that you would stay on the grounds."

"I will."

"Yes, and I will help you. Get the cloak."

Numbly, as if his mind didn't know precisely what his arms and legs were doing, Harry made his way up the stairs and into his dormitory. He found the cloak folded under his pillow, waiting for the next time he slipped out to meet Draco, and he held it up to his face for a moment, eyes closed, imprinting the smell and feel of it in his memory. 

When he returned to the common room, it looked as though no one had moved. He walked over to McGonagall and held out the bundle of silvery fabric, his hands surprisingly steady. She took it with an apologetic look, tucked it under her robe and turned to leave.

"You'll have it back soon, Potter."

Then she was gone, and Harry stood in the middle of a crowded room, utterly alone.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione murmured.

Without daring to look at her, Harry turned and bolted up the stairs.

*** *** ***

Harry stood beside the lake, staring out across the sullen water to where distant spirals of smoke marked the location of Hogsmeade. It looked so innocent from here. No more than a scattering of rooftops and chimney pots barely visible above the trees. Not at all the sort of place in which people disappeared or Death Eaters lurked. But that picturesque little village had taken everything from him.

Tears burned in Harry's throat, and he threw his head back to gaze, unblinking, at the hurrying clouds while he willed himself not to cry. The sky was a curious combination of pristine blue and looming grey, and the sun gleamed fitfully from between the rain clouds as they ran before the wind. Harry watched clouds and sky intently, feigning a deep fascination with their changeable beauty, forcing his mind away from darker and more treacherous thoughts.

He could not cry. It solved nothing, and he had done entirely too much of it lately. He could not leave the castle grounds, even though McGonagall had left him his Firebolt, and no one could catch that broomstick even if they did see him go. He could not think of Draco – trapped, locked up in some foul place, hurt, frightened, dead, his winter eyes blank and his bright hair stained with blood – or he would disintegrate, right here on the shore of the lake. He could not picture Medieval paintings, warrior-angels with gold leaf haloes behind their heads, startled puffer fish blowing up into spiky balloons, diamond-bright adamant fingers reaching out to snatch a flaming pine cone from the air, the Quidditch pitch at dusk, the North Tower at midnight, his own bed with its red tapestry hangings, his own face looking back at him from a mirror in the bathroom full of reproach because it was not the face he needed so desperately to see.

So many places he could not go. So many thoughts forbidden to him, if he wanted to go on breathing and pretending to care. Clouds were safe. Clouds could not bring Draco to mind, unless Harry remembered that his eyes were sometimes that exact shade of grey when he was depressed or grumpy, about to say something really cutting… No. No clouds. But the sky was blue, not grey, and so huge, so empty that it couldn't possibly lure him into forbidden thoughts. He had to concentrate on the sky.

It was late afternoon, getting on toward tea time. In another few hours, the sun would set and the stars would come out. Harry longed to stand here under the stars, remembering, but he knew that McGonagall would never allow him to stay out after dark. She couldn't keep him penned up in the castle all day, especially during the holidays, when he had no classes or Quidditch to occupy his time, but she made sure he was back in the common room every evening. Harry's need for privacy and a respite from the stares – gloating or sympathetic – of his classmates did not sway McGonagall in her determination to keep him safe. And Harry could not find the words to explain to her why he so desperately wanted to stand outside, alone, under the stars. Some things were not meant to be shared.

Privacy was the purpose of his walk today. Hagrid had promised him tea and biscuits, and McGonagall had given her permission, so long as he stayed with Hagrid and returned to the castle by supper time. Neither McGonagall nor Hagrid would know that he had taken the longest possible route to the hut by the forest or that he had stared so long at the rooftops of Hogsmeade, thinking of how much that little village had taken from him. 

He was cold, and the wind blew damp against his face. Wrapping his cloak more tightly around him, Harry turned to plod up the long slope from the lake to the forest and Hagrid's hut. He had seen little of Hagrid this last term, and he had avoided him entirely in the two weeks since Draco had vanished. Harry honestly did not know how Hagrid felt about his attachment to the Slytherin. He'd never had the courage to come out and ask, so they had avoided the subject when together. But Harry suspected that they would not be able to avoid it today. 

Smoke rose from the chimney invitingly, and the diamond-paned windows gleamed with warm light. Harry stood outside the door, trying to decide if he really wanted to cope with Hagrid's cooking or Hagrid's simple affection just now. He had not yet made up his mind to knock when the door burst open and Hagrid stood towering before him.

"There yeh are, Harry. I was startin' ter worry."

"Hallo, Hagrid."

"Get in outta that wind." The enormous groundskeeper stepped back from the door, allowing Harry enough room to squeeze past him into the hut, then he shut the door. "Let me jus' nip the kettle on ter the fire. Have a biscuit."

He shoved a plate the size of a dustbin lid toward Harry. It was covered with what appeared to be plate gaskets, so large, flat and hard were they.

"Umm, thanks. I'll wait for my tea."

Hagrid turned away from the hearth and pulled out a chair for himself. It groaned under him as he sat down, but it miraculously held his weight. Propping his elbows on the table, Hagrid regarded Harry from beneath his bristling eyebrows. Harry returned the look as long as he could, but soon his eyes were drifting to the tabletop, where he picked at a burn scar in the wood. A souvenir of Norbert, most likely.

"I won' ask yeh how yeh're doin'. It's plain ter see yeh're a right mess."

"I'm okay," Harry lied. He dug his thumbnail ferociously into the wood, letting the pain of splinters under his nail drive out the other pain for a brief moment.

Hagrid grunted at him. "Is that why yeh don' come ter see me anymore?"

"I'm sorry, Hagrid. I've been really busy, and…"

Hagrid cut him off with another skeptical grunt. He pushed himself out of the chair and began clanking and sloshing about with the tea things. Whatever Hagrid's shortcomings as a cook, he brewed an excellent cup of tea, and Harry gave him a grateful smile when he plunked a huge cup down in front of him. Milk and sugar followed, the plate of iron-hard biscuits was nudged invitingly toward him, then Hagrid resumed his seat and ladled several heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup.

"Yeh know, Harry," he commented, as he stirred his tea so energetically that it slopped across the tabletop, "if yeh keep hidin' yer boyfrien' from me, not bringin' him around with yeh, I migh' start ter think yeh're ashamed of him. Or of me."

Harry started so violently that he dropped his spoon. "What?"

"It has ter be one of us."

"Hagrid, you know I'm not… I mean… You don't really _want_ me to bring Malfoy to tea, do you?"

The tremendous shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I wouldn' blame yeh, if yeh was ter think I'm not the best company for the likes of Malfoy. Me bein' half-giant, an' him bein' from the oldes' wizardin' stock."

"You know better than that, Hagrid!"

Black eyes rested on his face, full of feigned innocence. "Then it's Malfoy yeh're tryin' ter hide, is it?"

"No! No…" Harry dropped his head into his hands and raked his fingers through his hair. "You don't understand."

"Don' I? Tha's no way ter love somebody, Harry." When Harry did not lift his head or speak, Hagrid went on in a gentle rumble, "My dad was a good man. He loved my mum somethin' awful, and when she left, he cried for weeks. She was a giantess, righ' enough, an' some called her a monster. Maybe she was, come ter think of it. Not much of a mum, anyway. But he loved her, an' when someone called her names or looked funny at her, my dad set them to rights. He taught me ter love her and not ter blame her for bein' what she was. 'It's not her fault, bein' a giantess,' he told me. 'It's her nature. Yeh can' change a body's nature, no matter how hard yeh try, an' if yeh love her, yeh don' try at all.' Tha's what my dad taught me."

Harry dropped his hands and stared blankly at the tabletop.

"Yeh picked a tough one, Harry. Nobody's gonna make this easy for yeh. But if yeh act like yer ashamed of Malfoy, people will jus' think it's all righ' ter treat him like he was dirt, an' they'll go on doin' it. Yeh think about that, an' about my dad. Yeh could learn somethin' from him, same as I did."

Harry gnawed his lip for a moment, turning over Hagrid's words, then he murmured, "I told Ron he had to stop treating Malfoy like a disease."

"An' did he?"

"Yes. But it's easy for him, when Malfoy isn't here. I don't know how well he'd do if he had to face him in person."

"If he muffs it, yeh jus' tell him again. Ron's a good sort. He won' never hurt yeh on purpose, Harry."

Harry felt unwelcome tears burn his eyes again, and he gritted his teeth against his own weakness. Why could he not go more than an hour without crying? Why did thoughts of _Ron_ set him off, now? Had he come completely unhinged?

"Drink yer tea," Hagrid advised, giving Harry a pat on the arm before he took a mammoth swig from his own cup. "McGonagall said yeh could stay as long as yeh wanted. I'll walk yeh up ter the castle, later."

"Can I stay 'til it's dark?"

"I s'pose so. Why?"

"I want to see the stars," Harry muttered, his face heating.

"Didn' know yeh was fond of stars."

"Draco is." His flush deepened, but he kept his head up and his eyes on Hagrid's face, refusing to back down. Hagrid had first broached the subject of Draco, giving Harry tacit permission to talk about him, and Harry suddenly understood that it was safe to tell Hagrid what he could not tell McGonagall. "He likes stars. He always wants to stay out after dark to watch them. And I know it's stupid, but I keep hoping that he's… looking at them when I am." Harry's face crumpled with pain. "I sit in the window at night, when I can't sleep, looking up at the stars and hoping that, wherever he is, he can see them."

"Harry, yeh can'…"

Whatever comfort Hagrid meant to give, he did not get the chance. At that moment, they both heard the dull thud of something that sounded remarkably like hooves in the vegetable patch behind the cabin. Then a heavy knock fell on the back door. Hagrid got to his feet, frowning, and lumbered over to the door.

"Who's there?" he called, even as he wrenched the door open. "Blimey! Firenze!"

Curious, in spite of his own misery, Harry came up behind Hagrid and peered under his arm to get a look at their visitor. He immediately recognized the centaur, with his palomino horse's body and human head crowned with white-blond hair, but he had never seen him – or any centaur, for that matter – outside the Forbidden Forest. The unexpected sight of Firenze standing on Hagrid's back stoop was enough to render him speechless.

"Good day, Hagrid." The centaur's pale sapphire eyes shifted to Harry, and the proud head inclined slightly in greeting. "Good day, Harry Potter."

"Hallo, Firenze," Harry mumbled, not sure what was the proper salutation to use with a centaur, especially one that looked so worried. Of course, centaurs always looked worried, since they spent their lives staring at the heavens and seeing the disasters that threatened the magical world prophesied there, but this particular centaur was positively twitching with anxiety. His flanks rippled at the lightest touch of the wind, and his hooves danced nervously. 

"What brings yeh here, Firenze?" Hagrid askeed.

The centaur lifted his head, testing the air with flared nostrils, and his tail swished against his rump. "I have been sent to fetch you. You are needed in the forest."

"Like tha', is it? I don' suppose yeh'd tell me what I'm needed I _for?"_

"A matter of grave importance."

"Mus' be, if it brings a centaur ter my door at this time of day. All righ', then. Jus' let me get a lantern…" He turned to find Harry pulling on his cloak and reaching for the lantern that hung beside the chimney. "Yeh wait here for me, Harry. I'll take yeh back to the castle when I'm done with Firenze."

"I'm coming with you," Harry insisted.

"Into the Fores'? Professor McGonagall would skin me alive!"

"Please, Hagrid!" A kind of panic was rising in Harry at the thought of being shut up alone in the hut, waiting for Hagrid to return. He needed fresh air and activity, something besides his own troubles to obsess over, and Firenze's mysterious errand promised all of that. "I'll stay out of trouble, honestly! Please let me come with you!"

"There is no danger, so long as you are in and out of the Forest before nightfall," Firenze assured him.

"What about Bane and his gang?" Hagrid asked.

"I am here on behalf of all the centaurs. Come, Hagrid. There is no time to waste."

Hagrid looked highly uncomfortable, but he could not stand up to the combined force of Harry's pleading and Firenze's pushing. With a resigned shrug, he grabbed his crossbow and quiver from the corner and ducked through the door. 

"Yeh can carry the lantern, Harry."

Trotting to keep up with the longer strides of Hagrid and the centaur, Harry crossed the vegetable garden and approached the first outlying trees. "Why do we need a lantern? It's still daylight."

"Yeh'll see."

They entered the Forbidden Forest on a narrow track that appeared to have been made by some kind of animal. A game trail, Harry thought, except that he had never seen any normal sorts of creatures in the forest who might make such a trail. Perhaps the centaurs used it. Or the unicorns. Or the werewolves and giant spiders… Harry shuddered and picked up his pace until he was right on Hagrid's heels. 

They had not gone far when the looming branches of the trees grew so thick that they completely blocked the sky, and the narrow, twisting path was cast into shadow. Harry called to Hagrid to wait and paused to light the lantern with his wand. When they resumed walking, Harry went between Hagrid and Firenze, lighting the ground before their feet. 

Emboldened by the presence of two such formidable companions and cheered by the spirit of adventure rising in him, Harry turned to the centaur and asked, "Why do you need Hagrid so badly, Firenze?"

"There is a creature in the forest…"

Hagrid came to an abrupt halt and grabbed the back of Harry's cloak. "Tha's it. Back yeh go."

For a sickening moment, Harry considered bolting back to the hut. His experience with the kind of creature that attracted Hagrid's attention was uniformly terrible, and he had an unpleasant feeling that anything the centaurs couldn't handle alone would be very nasty, indeed. But then he remembered how depressed he had been just a few minutes ago, before Firenze came to the door, and he set his jaw stubbornly.

"There is no danger," Firenze repeated, saving Harry the trouble. 

"What sort of creature is it?" Hagrid demanded.

"A human."

"Huh." The groundskeeper let go of Harry and started walking again, but he still wore a tremendous scowl. "I didn' think yeh centaurs had any truck with humans."

Firenze trotted a few steps, impatiently, then matched his pace to Hagrid's, while Harry half-ran between them. "We centaurs do not meddle in the affairs of humans, but neither do we harm the innocent, and this intruder is but a foal."

"A foal?  A _child in the Forbidden Forest?"_

"By the reckoning of our kind, yes. Still it took me nearly two days to persuade the others that we could not leave him to die. Had it not been for the portents, they would never have agreed."

Harry shivered. He didn't like the tone of this conversation at all, remembering as he did his first encounter with the Forbidden Forest and the centaurs."

"How did this… foal come ter be here?"

"He wandered into our glade two nights ago, sat down to gaze at the sky, and has not moved since. Bane would have slain him, coming as he did to the most private place of the centaurs to disrupt our studies, but our laws forbid violence against the young. He neither moves nor speaks, eats nothing, drinks nothing, and will soon die without the care of other humans."

Hagrid grunted. "That oughtta make Bane happy."

"The stars forbid it," Firenze stated flatly, his face grim in the shadows.

No one spoke for some time, and Harry wondered just how deep in the forest this glade of the centaurs was. He was getting breathless and tired, and wishing that he had not been so eager to join the expedition, when Firenze came to a halt. 

Turning to Hagrid, he said, "The human lies in the clearing, just beyond this screen of branches. Take him and go. Do not  linger in the clearing, and do not stop until you have left the forest."

"Ta, Firenze," Hagrid said. He pushed the crossbow into Harry's hands and added, "Yeh stay here with Firenze. Don' step into the clearing, Harry, no matter what yeh see. This is the centaurs' place for stargazing, and they'll kill yeh soon as look at yeh, if yeh go in uninvited."

Harry swallowed noisily and nodded, clutching the crossbow to keep his hands steady. He moved closer to the centaur's glossy flank for reassurance, as Hagrid forced his way through the heavy foliage that hid the clearing. 

As the branches parted, Harry saw a wide bowl of new grass, already in shadow as the sun sank toward the trees. It might have been beautiful at noon in Summer, with golden light pouring into it. Now, it was cold and damp and somehow even more uninviting than the dour forest that hemmed it in. Maybe it was the hostility of the centaurs, whom Harry could feel all around them, though he could not see them in the gathering dusk. Maybe it was the drawn intensity of the creature beside him. Or maybe it was the body lying huddled on the ground.

Harry took a step closer to the clearing, but Firenze halted him with word.

"Do not."

He obeyed, watching Hagrid stump over the short, patchy grass toward the unconscious figure in the clearing. The groundskeeper's wide back was between him and the body, so Harry could not see anything more than a bare foot and dark trousers – torn and muddied around the bottom – as Hagrid knelt over it. Then Hagrid shrugged off his moleskin coat, wrapped the body in it, and lifted the awkward bundle in his arms. 

As Hagrid turned, Harry felt as though a centaur had just kicked him in the chest. Recognition, horror and a relief so intense that it made him cry out in pain flooded him. Dropping the crossbow, he started for the clearing at a run, but Firenze's hand fastened on his arm, dragging him back.

"Let go of me! _Let go!_"

"You must not enter the clearing, Harry Potter."

"Stay there, Harry!" Hagrid called.

"It's Draco! _Let me go!_"

But Firenze did not let go, and Harry was still squirming in his grasp when Hagrid shoved through the branches again, holding Draco Malfoy's inert body in his arms. He reached Harry but did not slow his mammoth strides. Turning to look over his shoulder at the stunned boy, he growled, "Grab that crossbow and move it, Harry!"

Bewildered, his head whirling with questions and protests, Harry bent down to retrieve the weapon. Then he sprinted after Hagrid. 

"Get the lantern up so I can see," was all Hagrid said when Harry reached him.

"Is he alive?" Harry asked, his throat so knotted up with fear that he could hardly get the words out.

"He's alive, righ' enough, but he won't be for long, if we don' hurry. No, Harry! Don' stop! Yeh want us both killed and Malfoy ter die of the cold? Go on, then! Go!"

Hagrid's words drove away the last of Harry's confusion and resistance. Holding up the lantern to show the path clearly, he swung the crossbow to his shoulder, turned, and ran as if Voldemort himself were on his heels.

**_To be continued…_**


	4. Shattered Adamant

**Author's Note: **Thank you all for your comments and reviews! If I've not answered anyone's e-mail, I apologize, but I've been writing frantically for the last several days. So it isn't that I don't value your e-mails, but that I wanted to get another chapter done before I answered them. Please be patient with me!

Enjoy! – Claire

*** *** ***

**Chapter 3: _Shattered Adamant_**

"Madam Pomfrey!" Hagrid shouldered the door open and plowed into the hospital wing, Harry trailing behind, shouting loudly enough to rattle the windows in their frames. "_Madam Pomfrey!_"

"Really, Hagrid, _is_ all this racket necessary?" The nurse came bustling out of her office, face a study in disapproval, then stopped dead in her tracks at the sight that met her eyes. "Gracious! It's Malfoy!"

"We found him in the Forbidden Forest. Cold as a stone, and wet through."

Blank amazement gave way to her usual brisk efficiency, and she waved Hagrid toward the nearest bed. "Put him down, put him down. Potter, fetch me that blanket from the other bed… Does the Headmaster know?"

Hagrid shook his head. "We brought him straight ter you."

"Good man." She took the blanket that Harry had ripped off the nearest empty bed from his hand. "Go fetch him, Hagrid. And Professor Snape, I think."

"Righ'." Hagrid strode back out the door, ducking his head to clear the lintel.

Madam Pomfrey whipped her wand from the pocket of her starched apron and bent over Draco. Harry watched, twitching from one foot to the other with impatience, as she examined the unconscious boy. "Hmm. Exposure. Dehydration. Hasn't eaten much, either, from the looks of him. Give me a hand with these wet clothes, Potter."

When Harry hung back from the bed, face tinged a dull red, she pinned him with a bright, knowing gaze and demanded, "You're not turning modest on me, are you?"

"It's not me, it's… well…"

Madam Pomfrey gave a small, humorless snort of laughter. "There isn't a boy in this castle I haven't seen in the all-together, at one time or another," she pointed her wand at Harry, "including you. Now help me or get out of my way."

Harry's blush deepened, but he moved up to help Madam Pomfrey strip the soaked and filthy clothes off of Draco without further protest. Draco's skin beneath the sodden fabric was chill and white as marble, lifeless, inhuman, and Harry shuddered at the feel of it under his hands. Squelching fear and revulsion, Harry worked as quickly as his shaking fingers would allow. He kept his eyes on what he was doing and avoided looking at Draco's face – at the ghastly white cheeks, bluish lips, clumped and sticky eyelashes lying against the purple hollows beneath his eyes, and the raw, inflamed wound high on his left cheekbone. If he looked, he'd start to howl with the pain of it and never stop. Never, never stop.

"That's good, Potter. Now another blanket."

Harry blinked and looked up, startled to find that they had not only finished stripping off Draco's wet clothes but had dressed him in flannel pajamas as well, while he had been lost in his own misery. Madam Pomfrey had dried his hair, banished any damp spots on the bed, and turned the blankets covering him toasty warm with a spell. Now she was summoning a tray full of medicines and a spare blanket.

Harry helped her spread the extra blanket over Draco and pull it up around his chin. Then he reached under the heap of covers, into the pocket of warmth created by Pomfrey's self-heating spell, and found Draco's right hand lying on the mattress. He held it tightly in both of his own, lacing his warm fingers through Draco's cold, still ones, and reached deep in himself to find the rush of wizarding power that always came when Draco was near him.

The hand in his did not stir. The silver-blond lashes did not move. But Harry saw a tiny flicker of gold fire in the grey-white planes of his archangel's face and knew that his power was flowing into Draco, warming and strengthening him. Madam Pomfrey saw the tell-tale flicker, as well, and paused in her work to shoot Harry an approving glance.

"You're very good at that, Potter, though I don't know why I should be surprised. You always seem able to master magic that's far beyond your years."

"I can only do it with Draco," Harry murmured, his eyes now full of gold sparks and his fingertips beginning to tingle. 

"Hm." Madam Pomfrey shot him another look from beneath her lashes, and with his own power dancing in a glittering net before his eyes, he couldn't see the amused affection in her face. "Well, don't overdo it. Malfoy will be just fine without you draining yourself."

Harry gave a start, and his concentration slipped. The light faded from his field of vision and he found himself blinking stupidly into the nurse's kindly face. "But Hagrid said he was…" Harry swallowed painfully, "dying."

"So he was, and it was very sensible of Hagrid to bring him straight to me, without trying to meddle in things he doesn't understand. But it's nothing I can't fix."

Before Harry could demand more information, the door to the hospital wing swung open and Professor Snape burst into the room. McGonagall was right on his heels, almost running, and looking a good deal less dignified than usual, with her hat on crooked and a napkin still clutched in one hand. Dumbledore and Hagrid followed them at a more sober pace, but with no less suppressed excitement about them.

Snape swooped down on the unconscious Malfoy like a great carrion crow, robes flapping and eyes gleaming black in the candlelight. His face would have frightened Harry, had the boy not seen just such an expression on it before and come to recognize it as one of distress. Madam Pomfrey stepped out of his way, but Harry stood his ground, refusing to back away from the bed in spite of Snape's repellant glare.

The Potions Master stared down at his favorite student without speaking, then, to Harry's utter amazement, he lifted one hand to stroke Draco's hair very lightly. A single deft touch, and his arm dropped again. 

His face was twisted with the effort to contain himself, as he snarled, "Hagrid said you found him in the Forbidden Forest."

"The centaurs did," Harry said.

"How is he, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked, as he moved up beside Harry and bent over the still figure in the bed.

"He'll mend. Hagrid did well to get him here so quickly."

"We must remember to thank the centaurs."

Madam Pomfrey snorted. "_Thank_ them? Trust a pack of centaurs to leave the boy lying in a forest clearing, in the rain no less, for nearly three days! Just because they can live on prophecies and moonlight, they think the rest of us can, too! It's no wonder he's frozen through and half dead from thirst."

"We'll debate this at a later time. How badly is he injured?"

"He isn't injured, exactly, just cold and exhausted. I've given him some fluids, and Potter's helped me warm him up a bit."

Harry ignored Snape's burning glare and sent another surge of warmth down his own arms, through his hands and into Draco. 

Snape lifted one long finger to touch the oozing wound on Draco's cheek. "This wasn't caused by hunger or thirst."

"What do you make of that, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked. "Is it a burn?"

"I can't tell for certain. There's something cut into his face, a figure of some kind, but it's also badly burned. And whatever it is, it was made by magic."

All eyes turned to look at the nurse.

"Magic?" McGonagall repeated, blankly.

"I can't heal it. It resists any kind of spell. The best I can do is clean it, to reduce the infection, and wait for it to heal on its own. But it will scar."

Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted. "Interesting."

But Harry didn't find it interesting. He thought of Draco lying huddled in the clearing, where he had fallen after sitting under the stars for two nights, unmoving, and he shuddered. Something dreadful must have happened to him to drive him into that lonely place. Something that left only this one, small mark on his body but robbed him of the will to save himself. Harry's hand went, unconsciously, to his own scar and rubbed at it, as though he could wipe it from his face.

"There is one other thing, Headmaster," Madam Pomfrey said. Flipping back the blanket that covered Draco's left side, she caught his wrist and lifted his hand up where they all could see it. "I don't know if you would call it an injury, but it is definitely a sign of violence."

Harry gasped, as he caught sight of Draco's hand. Snape swore under his breath, and McGonagall uttered a startled cry. For the adamant hand – the beautiful, indestructible adamant hand – was missing two fingers. Of the two outer fingers only jagged stumps remained, shards of crystal like tiny knives protruding from the ends where the facets had broken, and the sharp ends were stained an ugly brownish red. Whatever had taken the fingers off had not done so neatly or easily.

Dumbledore held out his hand, and Pomfrey laid Draco's forearm arm in his clasp. Dumbledore bent over the damaged limb, studying it with a frown of concentration on his face, turning it gently in his hands. With one fingertip, he wiped at a brown stain, then he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, frowning even more heavily.

"Violence, indeed," he said at last. Laying Draco's arm across his midriff, Dumbledore pulled the blanket back up to his chin and glanced from McGonagall to Snape, his eyes bleak. "I cannot be certain what happened, but the force required to remove those fingers was immense. I would say they were blown off. And they are stained with dried blood."

McGonagall took a step closer to the bed. "Magic and fire," she murmured, her eyes on Draco's face. "Perhaps he cut himself with his own hand…"

"It would account for the magical nature of the wound," Snape said.

Dumbledore shook his head, slowly. "Perhaps. But there is something deliberate about the injury to his face… something calculated."

McGonagall flinched, and Harry was suddenly struck by the depth of concern in her eyes. She was not wrestling with a difficult problem that faced the school; she was wrestling with her own feelings and the horror of seeing a boy she cared about hurt. Wondering, Harry let his gaze travel around the circle of faces. Snape, Madam Pomfrey, Professor Dumbledore, even Hagrid. They looked genuinely worried. Upset. _In pain_. And in that moment, Harry realized that he was not the only person at Hogwarts who cared what happened to Draco Malfoy.

"Will he wake up soon?" Harry asked Madam Pomfrey, breaking the grim silence.

"I expect we could wake him up right now, if that's what the Headmaster wants, or we could let him come around on his own. That could take some time."

"I don't want to put him under any more strain, Poppy, but we all would like some answers. Is he strong enough for a reviving spell, do you think?"

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips in disapproval. "He isn't going to die, if that's what you mean, but I should think the boy's been through enough… Oh, very well. I can see you'll only fret yourselves into flinders until you can speak to him. If you'll excuse me, Professor Snape…" she said, crisply.

Snape grumbled something about being perfectly capable of doing the spell himself as he stepped away from the bed to give her room, while Dumbledore watched them both with a humorous twinkle in his eyes. Harry braced himself to be ordered away, but no one so much as looked at him, so he stayed where he was.

He had the sickening feeling that he had lived through all of this before, and not so very long ago. The hospital wing, the teachers crowded round the bed, Draco lying so still and broken between them, Harry watching as one of them prepared to awaken him. But this time, Harry was not trying to make himself invisible. This time, he wanted to be the first person Draco saw when he opened his eyes.

As Madam Pomfrey lifted her wand, Harry edged closer to the head of the bed, still clutching Draco's hand in both of his own. She murmured the spell, tapped the sleeping boy once with her wand, between the eyebrows, then bent over him, watching intently. Malfoy did not move.

Harry waited for some sign of life, gnawing his lip, and when none came whispered, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Give him a moment."

"Come on, Draco," Harry urged, "it's time to wake up! Open your eyes."

Very reluctantly, as if dragged up from a deep sleep by the sound of Harry's voice, Draco stirred. His face, so blank and cold 'til now, seemed to thaw. Lines of exhaustion and pain etched themselves into his forehead and around his mouth. His eyes drifted slowly open but did not seem to focus on anything, only stared at the shadowed ceiling above him and ignored the people clustered so anxiously around the bed.

"Draco?"

Once again, Harry's voice demanded his obedience. His eyes tracked over to Harry's face and rested there, staring blankly at him for so long that Harry began to fear Draco could not actually see him. Then he took a careful breath and said, in a voice as blank and dull as his gaze, "Potter."

Harry had an overwhelming urge to bend down and kiss him, but he contented himself with a wide, relieved smile. "Welcome back, Malfoy."

The silver-gilt brows drew together in a small frown. "From where?"

"We were hoping you could tell us that, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, as he moved up to stand opposite Harry. "You've been missing for some time, and we've been quite worried about you. How do you feel?"

Draco's frown deepened when he shifted his gaze to Dumbledore. He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Cold. I'm cold."

"Madam Pomfrey is taking care of that. Are you in any pain?"

"I… don't think so."

"Good." Dumbledore's hand rested on Draco's shoulder, squeezing it lightly through the piled blankets. "Then perhaps you can tell us where you've been for the last two weeks."

Draco's expression did not change, but Harry could feel tension rising in his body. His fingers stiffened. A small tremor went through him. And the blind look in his eyes grew more pronounced. He still stared up at the Headmaster's face, but Harry could swear that he was not seeing the old wizard at all, and whatever he _was _seeing terrified him.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore's voice, soft as it was, made Draco flinch and begin to shiver. "Can you tell me where you've been?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out of it. When he shut it again, his teeth closed on his lower lip. Harry saw them sink viciously into soft flesh, breaking the skin, and a trickle of blood ran down Draco's chin.

Dumbledore lifted his hand to rest against the side of Draco's head, cradling it gently without touching the wound on his cheek. "Calm down, my boy. Take a deep breath and relax. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"You're back at Hogwarts," Harry interjected and, forgetting that he was supposed to be circumspect around the teachers or that Draco didn't like being casually touched, he pulled the other boy's hand from beneath the blankets and clutched it to his chest in a protective, possessive gesture. "You're safe. Professor Dumbledore won't let anything get in here."

"Hogwarts." Draco stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then around at the huge room with its rows of beds and tall, arched windows. "The hospital wing."

"Right."

"It's always cold in the hospital wing."

"Madam Pomfrey put a whole pile of self-warming blankets on you."

"I don't want to stay in here. It's cold."

"Please, Draco, you have to tell us what happened."

"Let's go someplace warm."

"Draco…"

"You do good warming spells, Potter. Make us a warm place where we can sleep."

"You have to stay here for now."

"I'm cold. I can't sleep when I'm cold…"

"Hush. I'll cast you a warming spell right here, I promise, but you have to…"

"A moment, if you please, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Mr. Malfoy?" 

Draco's eyes flicked over to his face, the clouded grey now glazed with panic.

"What's the last thing you remember, before waking up here with us?"

"I…" He looked from Dumbledore to Harry and back again, his mouth open and his breathing unnaturally fast.

"There's no right answer, Draco. Just tell us what you remember." Harry had never heard such a gentle and persuasive note in Dumbledore's voice. "Anything at all."

"Stars," Draco whispered.

"Good. Where were the stars?"

"In the sky. Stars are always in the sky!" His voice scaled up and cracked on the last word, sending a chill down Harry's spine.

Dumbledore kept his hand against Draco's head and his eyes on the boy's face, holding his gaze, willing him to understand and to answer. "And where were you, when you saw them?"

"On the g… ground… With stones and… _No!_"

Dumbledore turned swiftly on Madam Pomfrey. "Something to calm him, Poppy, quickly."

"No! Don't… I can't s-see them anymore!" Before anyone could move to stop him, Draco tore his right hand away from Harry, clutched it fiercely in his left one, and curled himself into a tight ball, shouting, "Get away! _Get away!_"

Then Madam Pomfrey was pushing him away from the bed and leaning over Draco with a cup in her hands, and Professor McGonagall had caught him by the shoulders, her grip painful in her urgency.

"What's the matter with him?" Harry demanded, as he struggled to free himself from her iron fingers.

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the boy huddled in the bed. Dumbledore scooped up Draco, pulling him free of the blankets, and held him so that Madam Pomfrey could pour the potion down his throat, but Draco fought them mindlessly. It took all Dumbledore's strength to hold him, and Madam Pomfrey could not get the cup to his lips long enough to force the potion into him. Harry watched them struggle to restrain him with his fists knotted helplessly and a bubble of panic rising in him.

"Let me do it!" he cried, still fighting McGonagall's hold on him. Then his eyes fell on Draco's midriff and he gasped, "He's bleeding! Stop it! He's _bleeding!_"

Madam Pomfrey stepped quickly back and exclaimed, "It's his hand! He's crushing it…" She grabbed Draco's left wrist and tried to pry his hand away from the other one, but she could not begin to loosen the grip of those adamant fingers. Harry watched the grim, macabre struggle, watched blood splatter the front of Draco's white pajamas and run over his crystalline hand, and the bubble of panic inside him burst.

"Do something!" he shouted. "Make him stop!"

Snape suddenly grabbed the bed, pulling it a foot or two from the wall, then he moved to the space at the head. Catching Draco's head in both hands, he growled, "The potion, quickly!"

With the strength of all three of them combined – Pomfrey, Dumbledore and Snape – they managed to pour the potion down Draco's throat. Then Dumbledore sat down on the bed and held him tightly, confining his movements, until his struggles weakened and his limbs slowly began to relax. Finally, after what felt like hours, his head fell back against Dumbledore's arm and his eyes began to drift closed.

"That's it," Dumbledore murmured. "That's much better. Draco?"

Glazed, confused eyes tracked over to his face, and Draco's lips moved soundlessly.

"I'm going to let you go, now. Can you lie still?"

After a few false tries, Draco whispered, "Where's Harry?"

"He's right here. I'll let him sit with you, if you do as you're told, but you must lie still."

Very gently, Dumbledore settled him back against his pillow, and Snape rested his hands on his shoulders to keep him there. 

"Now, let go of your hand." The Headmaster's long fingers curled around Draco's adamant wrist as his voice slid compellingly over the stunned, drugged boy. "Let go, Draco."

Draco's fingers went slack, and Dumbledore pulled his left hand away from his midriff. His right hand lay on the reddened flannel of his shirt, bruised and bloodied, looking oddly misshapen. Silence gripped them all, as they stared at the mangled mess and absorbed the fact that Draco had done this to himself. Then Madam Pomfrey bent over the abused limb and lifted her wand.

Harry closed her eyes as she began to work, not wanting to see the hand again until it was whole and praying that the nurse could fix it.

"That should make him more comfortable," Madam Pomfrey said, and Harry opened his eyes to see her laying Draco's hand on the mattress. To his relief, it looked perfectly normal except for the fading bruises and half-healed cuts where the stumps of his adamant fingers had sunk into the flesh. "It will hurt for a few days, but there's no permanent damage."

"How do we stop him from doing it again?" McGonagall asked, her voice harsh with strain.

Dumbledore gazed thoughtfully down at Draco's sleeping face – colorless except for the livid wound on his cheek – and said, "I think we had better discuss that in my office. Unless Poppy would rather that we stay here?"

Madam Pomfrey shook her head emphatically. "He'll sleep, probably for several hours."

"Then we shall give him some peace and quiet. But someone must stay with him, Poppy. He's not to be left alone."

"I'll see to it."

"May I stay with him, Professor?" Harry asked.

"Of course."

"But you'll… you'll tell me what you decide, or figure out, or…"

"I will tell you everything, Harry. Now sit down and keep Draco company, but don't disturb him."

"I won't."

Harry waited until they had all filed out of the hospital wing, Hagrid pausing to thump him on the shoulder in a comforting gesture, then he pulled a chair up to the bed and sank into it. Madam Pomfrey was bustling around with trays and bottles, moving between her storage cupboard and her office, and leaving Harry alone with Draco for the first time since they had found him in the forest. At last he could do what he had been dying to do for all that endless time, what he had been dying to do for two solid weeks.

Pushing himself out of his chair, Harry leaned over the bed and whispered, "I'm sorry I couldn't do this before." 

He kissed Draco softly, careful to do nothing that might wake his sleeping archangel, but he could not hope to rein in his feelings completely. The moment his lips touched Draco's, he felt the sparkling heat of his wizarding power fill him, felt it course from him into the other boy's weakened body, and he closed his eyes with a silent sigh of pleasure. 

It had been so long since he had felt this! An eternity, to judge by the gnawing ache in his body and heart. Even cold, still and unknowing, Draco could call up more raw emotion and more power in him than any other force in this world! One touch and Harry broke into a thousand helpless pieces, shattered by happiness and fear and desperate longing, and he asked nothing in life beyond the chance to do it again. Feel it again. Break himself open for Draco again and show him the love in his heart so plainly that even his dear, impossible, prickly dragon of a lover could not deny it.

"Potter."

He started at the sound of Madam Pomfrey's voice but forced himself not to jerk away from Draco. Breaking off the kiss as gently as he had begun it, Harry paused to brush the hair back from Draco's forehead and drop another kiss between his eyebrows, then he straightened up to meet Madam Pomfrey's gaze.

"Be sure you don't wake him," she said, repressively. 

"I won't."

The nurse nodded once and whisked away in a swirl of starched white apron and efficiency. Harry blinked at her, not sure whether he had just been chastised for inappropriate behavior or given permission to snog Draco in the middle of the infirmary, and sank back in his chair. Pulling Draco's hand out from under the blankets, he held it tightly against his chest for a moment, then bent his head and rested his lips against the backs of the other boy's fingers.

"I know you don't like this kind of stuff," he mumbled into the back of Draco's hand, "but I can't help it. I need to touch you, and Pomfrey will chuck me out if I kiss you again. At least… I think she will. It's kind of hard to tell with her."

Propping his elbows on the mattress, Harry clasped Draco's hand in both of his own and rested his chin lightly on their entwined fingers. He stared at the other boy's sleeping face for a long, quiet time, his eyes growing darker and stormier as he remembered the horrible sound of Draco screaming at him to get away. Finally, in spite of Madam Pomfrey's warnings about awakening her patient, he had to talk, to vent his feelings.

"You knew me when you woke up. I saw it in your face. You remembered about us, about the warming spells and sleeping together, and you asked for me. So you know me, Malfoy, and you aren't afraid of me. You just have to wake up and remember. Don't go back to that other place."

He pressed Draco's knuckles hard against his lips and shut his eyes. "You have to stay with me Draco. I couldn't stand it, if you left again. I spent the last two weeks learning what it would be like without you, and I know that I can't do it. I can't. You have to believe me, and you have to stay with me. If you don't…" He hunted around in his exhausted, overstressed mind for the worst thing he could possibly imagine, something to express the depth and breadth of his need, and could come up with only one disaster big enough. "Voldemort wins. That's it. You'll wipe out the wizarding world in one fell swoop, by turning Perfect Bloody Potter, The Boy Who Lived, everybody's favorite hero, into a bedlamite."

"Now, Potter, is that really necessary?" Once again, Madam Pomfrey had sneaked up on him and caught him unawares. "I've never yet heard that guilt speeds healing."

Harry flushed painfully but refused to look away from the nurse's bright, knowing eyes. "I need him to come back."

"I'm well aware of that. So hold his hand and have a nice chat – a _quiet_ chat, mind you – but keep the Dark Lord out of it. We hear quite enough of him, as it is."

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey."

"And try not to fret so. Sixteen-year-old boys are nearly indestructible. Trust me, I have reason to know!"

_That's what Dumbledore said about his hand_, Harry thought, as Madam Pomfrey bustled away, _and look at it now._

*** *** ***

"What exactly happened down there?" Snape demanded, as the door swung shut behind them.

"That boy has lost his grip on reality," McGonagall said, grimly. "He's dangerous."

"The only person who got hurt was Malfoy himself."

"Does that mean we should let him go on doing it, unchecked? What will he break the next time he's frightened and grabs onto something with that hand?"

"What are you suggesting, Minerva?" Snape growled, his eyes flaring from beneath his lowered brows. "That we take his hand off for his own good… _again?!_"

"Not unless we absolutely must," Dumbledore answered, calmly. He waved at the chairs next to the desk, then conjured an extra big one for Hagrid. "Let's try to discuss this calmly. Please. Don't lurk there by the door, Hagrid. Sit down."

The groundskeeper shuffled across the room to Dumbledore's desk and eased himself into the provided chair. The professors took the smaller chairs that always stood ready for visitors, but neither of them looked very comfortable against the Victorian cushions.

"I was thinkin' I ought ter go back for a chat with Firenze," Hagrid mumbled diffidently. 

"Very true, but not this minute." Under the startled eyes of his staff, Dumbledore sank down in his chair, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. None of them remembered ever seeing the Headmaster betray such weariness before, and they waited in silence for him to resume his usual alert, twinkling manner.

"Albus?" McGonagall finally ventured, when he still sat with his fingers pressed to his eyes.

Dumbledore dropped his hands and looked a question at her.

"Are you all right?"

"No, I am not." He settled his half-moon spectacles on his nose again and fixed a gaze full of sorrow and exhaustion on her troubled face. "Not so many days ago, I sat in this chair and asked myself just how much a pair of teenaged boys could suffer before they broke. I did not think to find an answer so soon."

"Are you so sure Malfoy has broken?" Snape asked, hurt putting an edge in his voice.

"Was that the Draco Malfoy you know, Severus?" Snape shook his head, his eyes sliding away from Dumbledore's. "I devoutly hope the break is neither complete nor permanent, but we cannot fool ourselves that a good night's sleep and a square meal will cure him."

"He was all right when he woke up," McGonagall ventured. "He recognized Potter, until…"

"Until he tried to remember."

"What on earth could have happened to him, to make him snap that way?"

"Voldemort," Dumbledore answered, succinctly.

"If You-Know-Who had him, he'd be dead, not wasting away in the Forbidden Forest," Snape argued. 

McGonagall frownedt. "And speaking of the Forest…"

"You-Know-Who isn't in our fores', is he?" Hagrid asked.

"No." Dumbledore smiled tiredly at the worried Hagrid, shaking his head. "Voldemort is nowhere near Hogwarts, as far as we can determine, nor was Draco, until very recently. I had the Forbidden Forest searched three times in the first week of his absence. He was not there."

"He wouldn't have survived this long anyway," Snape said, "alone and unarmed in that place. There are plenty of things in that forest that can kill a wizard besides the Dark Lord. Nothing dares intrude on the centaurs' clearing, but anywhere else he'd be a quick meal for the first werewolf or spider that found him."

"How long did Firenze say he was in the clearing?" Dumbledore asked.

"Two nights," Hagrid answered.

"While he's been missing closer to two weeks. At a guess, I'd say he didn't enter the forest until the night he turned up in the centaurs' clearing since, as Severus points out, he would not likely survive a even one night alone in the forest. But this brings up another conundrum. I've never heard tell of an intruder coming alive from that clearing, yet the centaurs summoned you to rescue Draco. Why did they save him, I wonder?"

"Somethin' abou' portents. You know how centaurs talk – hard ter make head or tails of what they say – but Firenze seemed ter think the stars had told him not ter let Malfoy die."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, and he murmured, "Indeed."

"It was Firenze did the savin'. He said they all agreed, but I could tell he was stretchin' the truth jus' a bit. The rest of them were all around the clearin', watchin', jus' waitin' for an excuse ter stomp us all flat. I figured they could change their minds any time, so I got Harry an' Malfoy outta there, right quick."

"I must have a chat with Firenze, sometime soon." The twinkle was creeping back into Dumbledore's eyes and the smile tugging at his mouth again. "We're all so used to thinking of Mr. Potter as the focus of prophecy and portent that it comes as something of a surprise to find Mr. Malfoy in that position. If Firenze was telling the truth about the portents."

"_Do_ centaurs lie?" McGonagall asked.

Snape glared sourly at them both and snapped, "The entire world does not revolve around Harry Potter!"

"No, but our war against You-Know-Who does," McGonagall retorted.

Dumbledore's smile turned wistful. "And Harry revolves around Draco in a way that our older, wiser and more cynical heads have difficulty grasping. This places Mr. Malfoy squarely at the center of all our strategies, whether or not we feel he belongs there. Yes, I must definitely have a chat with Firenze."

McGonagall fidgeted in her chair for a moment, shooting wary glances at Snape, then she said, "This is all very well, Albus, but you have not addressed the most pressing issue. What to do with Malfoy."

"_Do_ with him?" Snape barked. "What do you mean, _do_ with him? He's not a robe you've outgrown and need to get rid of, Minerva!"

"No, he's a boy who is clearly suffering some kind of breakdown…"

"You don't know that! You're not qualified to say what he is or isn't suffering!"

"Exactly my point. None of us are qualified! And as long as he's got that hand…"

Snape was half out of his chair, towering over McGonagall and hissing at her in wounded fury, "That's the second time you've mentioned his hand… a hand _you gave him_, if my memory serves! And now what? You want to take it away from him? Or do you want to put him in a binding spell, so he can't touch anything… or any_one_ with it? Worried about your precious Potter, are you?"

"_I'm worried about all of us!_" McGonagall rose from her chair to glare straight into his eyes. "Most of all, I'm worried about Malfoy."

"Enough. Both of you, sit down." Dumbledore's tone brooked no argument, and both professors subsided into their chairs. "Minerva, what exactly are you suggesting?"

"That Malfoy belongs at St. Mungo's, not in our hospital wing."

Snape gave snarl of rage, and Dumbledore silenced him with a raised hand. "Why?"

"They have healers there who can help him, and he won't be able to hurt himself or anyone else."

"No, but plenty of people will be able to hurt _him_," Snape interjected.

"St. Mungo's is not a Medieval torture chamber, Severus," McGonagall said, wearily.

"You're forgetting his parents." McGonagall shut her mouth with a snap, and all eyes fixed on Snape. "Malfoy is underage. If you take him out of this castle, he becomes the responsibility – the _property_ – of his parents. The only thing that's protected him from them, so far, is Dumbledore, and Dumbledore can only protect him inside Hogwarts."

"We don't even know that his father is still alive…"

"He has a mother."

"Who may want to protect him as badly as we do!"

"Or not." Snape's black, burning eyes turned on Dumbledore. "Are you willing to take that chance? You promised Draco that you would do everything in your power to protect him, if he chose you over his father. What is that promise worth, Dumbledore?"

The Headmaster met his gaze steadily, face unreadable, for a long moment. Then Dumbledore nodded once and said, "Draco stays at Hogwarts."

The fury drained from Snape so quickly that he seemed to deflate into his chair. His eyes closed for a moment, and a relief so intense it looked like pain washed over his face. Then he opened his eyes again and looked at McGonagall. 

She shrugged slightly and said, "You're right, Severus. Albus gave his word, and the boy belongs here. But that doesn't…"

Dumbledore lifted a hand, silencing her repeated protest. "The hand is a concern, but not an insurmountable problem. I'll discuss it with Poppy and find a way to keep him both calm and safe. We must be particularly careful, however, that he not have access to a wand in his current condition. He could do real, irreparable damage with magic."

"Make sure Potter doesn't carry his wand in his pocket," McGonagall advised.

"See to it, will you please, Minerva? I will talk to Poppy when I can and let you know what we decide to do. But if you will all excuse me," he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, "I must contact Sirius and tell him to call off the search."

They all stood up and filed out of the room, Hagrid closing the door behind them. Only when he was alone did Dumbledore resume his seat. He sank slowly into his chair, pulled off his glasses, and pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. It was a very, very long time before he finally stirred, put on his spectacles with a sigh, and reached for a pen.

*** *** ***

As afternoon stretched into evening and evening into full night, Harry sat in the hospital wing, watching Draco sleep. The potion slowly wore off, and Draco's deep, drugged sleep gave way to a more natural one, full of restless dreams. He tossed and muttered, clutching at the mattress, the bedclothes and his own pajamas with adamant fingers, while Harry kept hold of his right hand just to be sure that he didn't injure it again in the grip of a nightmare.

It was getting late, and Harry was painfully tired. He wanted to crawl into bed with Draco and sleep for a week, but he didn't think either one of them would rest much that way, or that Madam Pomfrey would allow it. Leaving was out of the question, even if Dumbledore had not charged him to keep an eye on Malfoy. So Harry did the only thing left to him – pulled off his glasses, put his head down on the mattress, and fell asleep in his chair.

The crash of the door being thrown open and the sound of loud, laughing voices startled Harry awake. He jerked upright in his chair, fumbling for his glasses, as a whole crowd of students surged through the doorway. In the midst of the group was one girl – a Ravenclaw he recognized from Astronomy class – with an enormous, purple boil on her face that was sprouting tentacles before Harry's eyes. She was the only one not laughing.

As they piled into the room, dragging the girl along with them, shouting for Madam Pomfrey at the top of their lungs, Harry felt the hand in his stiffen. He had only a moment to register that Draco was awake, then the other boy was up and moving, too fast for Harry to catch. Snatching his hand free of Harry's clasp, he rolled abruptly from the bed to land in a crouch on the floor. Then he pushed himself to his feet and started running toward the nearest window.

"Draco! No!"

Harry leapt to his feet so violently that he knocked his chair over with a crash, and a dead silence descended on the room, as everyone turned to stare at him. Harry launched himself after the fleeing figure, screaming, "_Draco!_"

Malfoy did not turn or break stride at Harry's cry. Panic leant him a speed that Harry could not match, even with his longer legs, and he reached the window well ahead of pursuit. Pausing for a bare moment with both hands flattened against the glass, he looked up at the soaring arch of stone above his head. Then he drew back his left arm and brought his adamant hand against the glass with shattering force.

Bright shards cascaded to the floor all around him. Chill, wet air poured through the empty archway. Paying no heed to the thousands of tiny blades on the floor beneath his bare feet, Draco bounded into the deep window embrasure and stood there, poised to jump, his hands braced against the carved stone.

"_No!_" Harry screamed, flinging himself bodily across the last few feet that separated them.

At the same moment, another voice called, "_Stupefy!_"

The spell burned over Harry's head and struck Draco in the middle of the back. He stiffened, his hands opening reflexively, and he began to topple forward, out of the window. Harry slid the last step on glass shards and fastened his hand in Draco's shirt. With a strength born of terror, he pulled the smaller boy backward, away from the window and the killing drop to the grass below, and into his arms. Draco's deadweight carried them both to the floor. They landed hard among the shattered remains of the window, and there Harry sat, holding Draco's body across his lap and shaking uncontrollably.

**_To be continued…_**


	5. Patronus

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the long wait on this chapter. I'm currently working on two fics at once, in two separate fandoms, and I have to alternate chapters on each story to get them both done. Sometimes, when a chapter doesn't come easily, both stories get delayed. So please be patient with me and know that I'm doing my best to get this fic done in a timely manner. I'm as anxious as you are to see it finished!

I cannot take credit for coming up with the name "Giants Dance" for Stonehenge. I borrowed it from the brilliant Mary Stewart, who uses it in her series of books about Merlin and Arthur – _The __Crystal__Cave__, The Hollow Hills and _That Wicked Day_. I chose it, because it conjures up images of Merlin and the druids, and it seems an appropriate name for the wizarding world to use._

Thank you all for your reviews and comments! I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

-- Claire

*** *** ***

**Chapter 3: _Patronus_**

Harry stared intently at the door. It was a perfectly normal door by Hogwarts standards, but it filled Harry with a queasy mixture of curiosity and alarm. It was not the ornate brass knob, the stone arch with a coiled dragon carved into the keystone, or the enormous hinges that promised to wail like a suffering soul when they moved that made him so uneasy. It was the absolute certainty that the door had not been here last night.

When Madam Pomfrey had chased Harry out of the hospital room in the wee hours of the night, threatening him with a binding hex and a couple of House Elves to cart him off to his bed if he didn't go under his own steam, the room had looked perfectly normal. And more to the point, Draco had been sleeping peacefully in one of the beds. This morning, Draco was gone, Madam Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen, the beds had been shoved about to clear this patch of wall, and the mysterious door had appeared in it. 

Muted voices sounded from the other side of the door, warning Harry that someone was approaching. He stepped back just in time to avoid being trampled by Madam Pomfrey as she came bustling through the doorway. Harry sidestepped her and tried to peer around her into the room beyond. She clucked disapprovingly at him and pulled the door shut.

"I thought I told you to get some rest, Potter. You look dreadful."

"Where's Draco?" he demanded, ignoring her irrelevancies.

"In his room. _Sleeping_."

"His room? What room? Can I see him?"

"After you speak to the Headmaster and have some breakfast. Gracious, Potter!" she exclaimed, as she pulled a gold watch from her pocket and looked at the dial, "the sun is barely up!"

"Madam Pomfrey, _please_…"

"I don't suppose there's any point in sending you down to the Hall for breakfast, is there? No? Well then, sit down on one of those beds, and I'll see what I can find to feed you." She waved him toward the far side of the room, flapping her apron at him as though trying to herd a flock of chickens. "Off with you."

"I'm not hungry!" Harry protested.

"Of course you're hungry. You're sixteen! I know you're worried, but that's no reason to starve yourself. Now, sit! How are those cuts, by the way?" she asked, as she watched him sit down very carefully, "still tender?"

"Just a little," he mumbled, blushing at the memory of lying face down on a mattress while Madam Pomfrey pulled slivers of glass out of his backside.

She gave him a motherly pat and bustled away, muttering under her breath, "Sixteen! Babies, the pair of them! Too young for all this nonsense, that's what I say, _and_ what I've told the Headmaster, more than once…"

Harry waited only until the nurse had disappeared into her office, still muttering, then he jumped off the bed and approached the door again. This time, he did not hesitate. Draco was on the other side of that door, and Harry was not going to hang about here, waiting for permission to see him. He reached out to grasp the large, brass knob.

"Password, please."

Harry jumped and snatched his hand back. The voice – a precise, well-bred voice that reminded him of bowler hats and very small mustaches – had come from the door itself. Harry peered at it, looking for the source, but could see nothing besides thick, dark oak panels. He was used to the paintings in the castle talking to him, but not hunks of wood.

"I… I beg your pardon?" Harry ventured.

"Password, please," the voice repeated.

"I don't know the password."

"Then you may not open this door," the voice informed him, crisply.

"But I have to get inside! I'm _supposed_ to be in there!"

Before the door could respond to this, the knob was turned from the other side, and it swung open. Professor Dumbledore stood in the opening, gazing at Harry over the top of his spectacles.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter. I thought that would be you."

"Professor, I…"

"I'm glad you're here. I need a word with you." Turning to look over his shoulder, he said, "We'll only be a few minutes, Severus."

"I'm not going anywhere," Snape answered, from somewhere outside Harry's field of vision.

"Excellent. Harry? If you would?"

With a sweep of his arm, Dumbledore gestured Harry back from the door, then he stepped into the hospital wing. Once again, the door shut so quickly that Harry did not get more than a glimpse of the room inside. The Headmaster smiled at his annoyed expression.

"There's no need to bristle at me that way," he chided. "I am not trying to keep you from seeing Mr. Malfoy."

"Then why can't I go in?"

"Because you don't know the password."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes silenced him. He should know by now that the Headmaster had an answer for everything, and a solution to any problem. Harry would only prolong the agony by delaying or distracting him. Swallowing his impatient words, Harry asked, meekly, "May I have the password, please?"

"In a moment. Come with me."

Dumbledore moved to the left of the doorway and turned to face the blank wall. Lifting his wand, he swept it across the stone surface and said, "_Transparo_." 

Suddenly, the wall was gone, and Harry found himself gazing into the next room. It looked like a very small replica of the hospital wing's main ward – from the tall, narrow windows and marble floor, to the brass candle sconces on the wall above the bed. Draco lay in the bed, under a pile of blankets, deeply asleep. Snape sat in a chair beside him, reading a book that looked as though it had come from the Restricted Section of the library. As he turned the page, a cloud of dust rose from it.

Harry stared and stared, unable to take his eyes from the still figure in the bed. Draco looked so small with all those blankets pulled up around his ears – small and fragile. It made Harry's chest hurt to look at him. And yet, perversely, he was comforted by the sight of Professor Snape waiting so patiently at his bedside. 

He reached out one hand and felt cold, rough stone beneath his fingertips. "The wall is still there," he murmured.

"There would be little point in locking Mr. Malfoy in a private room, and then removing the wall."

"Then they can't hear us."

"Or see us. It is only transparent from this side."

"Is he all right?" Harry whispered, trying not to let his fear creep into his voice.

"That's a difficult question to answer. He slept the night through, thanks to Madam Pomfrey and her Every-Flavor Potions, and there have been no more incidents."

"But you've locked him up."

"For his own protection, Harry. He could have died last night, had you and Madam Pomfrey not acted so quickly."

"I know."

"We can't allow that to happen again, nor can we allow him to harm someone else."

"What about those windows?" Harry asked, pointing at the tall, ornate casements in the back wall of the room. "He broke one just like that with one blow of his hand."

"These have unbreakable spells on them, as does every fragile object in the room."

_Except Draco_, Harry thought, glumly, but he kept that to himself.

"The door is proof against all magical and physical force, and each person who uses it has his own unique password. That way, Draco can't learn it and open the door himself."

"He's stuck in there?"

"He can leave with one of us, and of course, he has a password of his own. But we won't give it to him just yet."

Harry took a deep, steadying breath, willing himself to reason and calm. Draco would be safe in the strange room. He couldn't hurt himself anymore. He wouldn't care that the door was locked and he couldn't get out, because he wasn't thinking clearly enough to notice. It was just another room… just a way of protecting him…

"It was either this, or we send him to St. Mungo's," Dumbledore said, softly. Harry knew by the gentle note in his voice that the old wizard had read his thoughts very accurately. "We thought he would be safer here, with us."

Harry nodded, still struggling for control. Finally, he asked, in an attempt to distract himself, "How did you make this room so quickly?"

"This is the Room of Requirement."

Harry turned startled eyes on him. "I thought that was on the seventh floor. Are there two of them?"

"No, only one, and it _is_ usually found on the seventh floor. But with a little effort, we were able to persuade it to relocate."

"Won't it disappear? Or go back where it belongs? What if it goes off somewhere with Draco inside?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "It doesn't disappear when you're using it, Harry, and I don't believe I've ever heard of it taking a student with it. Or even a drunken House Elf, for that matter."

"Okay." Harry cast a doubtful look through the transparent wall. He trusted Dumbledore, but he didn't like this talk of "persuading" the room to move. A reluctant magical room seemed like more trouble than it was worth. "May I have my password, now?"

"Certainly. It is _Lionheart_."

A vision of the Gryffindor lion popped into his head, and he smiled faintly. "Thanks." 

Harry turned for the door, but Dumbledore halted him with a hand on his arm.

"Not just yet, Harry. You need a proper meal, and Professor Snape needs a little more time."

It had not occurred to Harry that Snape either needed or deserved time alone with Draco, but a glance at the Potions Master told him that Dumbledore was right. Sour, nasty, detestable Snape was sitting there so quietly, so patiently, with his face relaxed into something close to softness and his eyes shifting every now and then to Draco's face. 

_He looks sad_, Harry thought, _and tired. _If Harry had ever known his parents or had any adult in his life who cared a scrap for him, he would have recognized the look on Snape's face as the one a father wore when he had sat up all night with his sick child. As it was, Harry had no such experience to help him understand what he saw, but he sensed the mingled sorrow, hope and weariness in Snape and felt an odd sympathy for him.

"How long do I have to wait?" Harry asked.

"Not long. You'll be with him when he wakes up, I promise."

Harry nodded and turned away from the scene in the other room. "I guess I can eat."

"Good. And while you eat, you can tell me everything you remember about last night. By the way, how are you healing after your encounter with the broken window?"

Harry groaned to himself and rubbed his abused backside, wondering how many people were going to ask him about it. Of all the things he had been famous for over the years, having a bum full of glass was undoubtedly the most embarrassing. And that was saying a lot.

*** *** ***

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, softly.

Draco said, without turning his head, "Looking at the stars."

Harry glanced out the window at the view of the sunlit grounds. "It's daylight. There aren't any stars out."

Draco did not answer but continued to stare out the window, his head turned so that Harry could see no more of him than the curve of his cheekbone and jaw, half hidden by loose hair. He sat in the deep embrasure, his left shoulder propped against the glass and his bare feet resting on the sill, so that his knees were drawn nearly up to his chest. His arms were tucked in close to his body, caught between his chest and his knees, giving him a strangely huddled, defensive posture, though his manner was unnaturally calm and distant with no hint of distress in it.

Harry sighed to himself and sat down on the edge of the window sill. From this vantage point, he could see more of the other boy's face, and he stared intently at it while Draco continued to stare through the glass. This was a familiar pattern for them – Harry looking at Draco and Draco looking off into the distance – but this time, there were no sideways glances or knowing smiles, no current of warmth or excitement between them. Draco seemed completely unaware of Harry's eyes on him.

They sat in silence for a handful of minutes, while Harry tried to find something to say. Every topic of conversation seemed fraught with danger, and Draco was so withdrawn that Harry wondered if he even remembered, from one moment to the next, that there was another person in the room with him. What could Harry possibly say to him that would mean anything at all, that would fill those vacant eyes with recognition, without triggering another terrible panic?

"Do you want anything?" he finally asked, then bit his lip at the sound of words that had so often made Draco retreat from him. It did not reassure him at all that Draco took no notice. "Are you hungry? Cold?"

"I'm always cold," Draco murmured, his breath misting on the glass before him.

Harry briefly clasped Draco's bare ankle, then his foot. He felt even colder to the touch than usual. "I'll get you a blanket." 

Crossing swiftly to the bed, he pulled a blanket from it and carried it back to the window. Draco still sat in the embrasure, not acknowledging by so much as a glance that he knew Harry was there, so Harry made no attempt to give him the blanket. Instead, he draped it over Draco's motionless form and pulled it up around his shoulders without waiting for permission from the other boy. It promptly slid down his arms. Harry pulled it back up again and tucked it around him.

"Does that help?" Draco did not answer, and Harry felt his frustration rise. "Look at me, Draco. Please." When Draco still did not respond, he added more insistently, "The stars aren't going anywhere. Look at me."

Very slowly, the silver-blond head turned in his direction. Grey eyes so opaque that they looked blind lifted to his face. Harry met his gaze, searching for some flicker of emotion in it, some sign that he knew where he was or who was with him, but found nothing. No pain, no fear, no welcome, no warmth. Only emptiness and a calm resignation that was more frightening than his earlier frenzy. 

"Do you know who I am?" Harry murmured.

"Harry."

"That's my name, but do you know _who I am?_"

Draco blinked once, as if confused by the question. "You're Harry."

"I used to be more than just Harry." His hand lifted, as if under its own power, to brush Draco's cheek. "I used to matter to you."

Slowly, Harry sank down to perch on the edge of the window sill. He let his hand linger against Draco's face, and he watched the other boy intently for some change of expression, some flicker of warmth or understanding. 

"You still matter to me," he whispered, as he brought both his hands up to clasp Draco's throat, his thumbs brushing his jaw in a gently possessive way. "Nothing could make me forget you. _Nothing_. And I don't believe you would forget me, either."

Draco just looked at him in that same blank way, and Harry felt his throat thicken with tears.

"I missed you so much, I swear I thought I was dying. My insides hurt all the time, and I couldn't eat or sleep. I didn't know where you were or even if you were still alive, but all I could think about was how cold you must be without me there. I thought of you sleeping alone, shivering, then waking up and looking for me…" He slid his hands up to clasp Draco's head, cradling his face between his palms, and buried his fingers in tangled silver-gilt hair. "I know you looked for me, Draco. I know you missed me, even if you can't say it. Just like I know you love me."

The last words came out in a rough whisper, as Harry leaned in to touch Draco's mouth with his. In the moment before their lips met, Harry swore to himself that he saw a flicker of light in those dead eyes and saw the pale, cold lips soften into a smile. And he knew, with a surge of relief so immense that it brought a murmur of pain from him, that he had been right. Draco could never really leave him. Never really forget.

A sudden, tearing cry struck Harry in the face like a blow, and he pulled back in alarm. Draco wrenched his head out of Harry's grasp and flung his left hand up to cover his mouth, screaming, "_No! Get away!_"

Harry just stared at him, too stunned to react, while Draco flattened himself against the side of the window embrasure, his eyes dark and wild, the back of his hand pressed to his lips. In the next breath, the glittering hand shot out, a finger pointed straight between Harry's eyes, and Draco shouted, "_Expecto__ Patronum!_"

Silver mist erupted from the tip of his finger with such force that it flung Harry off the window sill. He landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and looked up to see a huge, vaporous creature bearing down on him. Instinctively, he scrambled away, but then his shoulders fetched up against the door and he could retreat no further. The Patronus charged, and Harry shut his eyes to block out the terrifying reality of it.

But it was not a magic spell that hit him. It was a human body, full of inhuman strength and more rage than it could hold. Fingers latched around his throat – warm flesh on one side, cold crystal on the other – and began to squeeze. Harry's eyes flew open. He saw Draco crouched over him, one knee planted in his midriff, his face contorted with pain. Draco's eyes met his squarely, and Harry saw tears shining in them.

Draco bared his teeth in a grimace and gasped, "I'm sorry!"

Then the crushing pain in Harry's throat overwhelmed him, and black splotches swam before his eyes, hiding the dreadful vision. He reached out blindly to defend himself, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Draco's arms, while the other boy squeezed the life out of him. He was slipping into blackness, his head full of pounding blood and the echo of Draco's last words.

In the last moment before he lost consciousness, Harry heard the door crash open and a familiar voice bellow, "_Stupefy!_"

Draco stiffened and toppled sideways, his hands falling away from Harry's throat. Running feet sounded all around him, and Dumbledore – a blur of purple robes and white beard – knelt at his side.

"Let's get him out of here," Dumbledore said, speaking to another dark blob on the fringes of Harry's sight. "Harry? Can you stand?"

"I… uhh…" he croaked.

"What about Malfoy?" That was McGonagall's voice, Harry decided.

"Get him to bed and put a binding hex on him. Poppy, if you would…"

Two pairs of hands grabbed Harry by the arms and hoisted him off the floor. Then they guided him toward the door.

"I can't see anything," Harry muttered.

"You lost your glasses," Dumbledore informed him, gently. "Come, Harry."

Harry did not argue. He could not get enough words out to protest, and he could not stand without the support of the two adults flanking him. By the time they led him onto the main hospital ward and helped him to a seat on the nearest bed, he was shivering violently in reaction, his eyes filled with tears. Madam Pomfrey pressed a cloth to the side of his neck, and he gave a hiss of pain.

Dumbledore handed him his glasses. Harry tried to settle them on his nose, but his fingers were trembling too badly to hold them, so Dumbledore did it for him. Then the old wizard gave Harry's shoulder a brief squeeze and said, "Look after him, Poppy. I'll be back in a moment." 

He moved away, leaving Harry alone with Madam Pomfrey. She fussed about with her wand and various bottles of liquid, while Harry sat huddled on the bed, trying to swallow the tears in his throat and hide the ones running down his face, while his teeth chattered uncontrollably. 

"You've some nasty gouges here," the nurse murmured.

"The fingers…" Harry said, in between spasms of his jaw. "The broken ends… are sharp…"

"I told the Headmaster it was foolish to leave that hand on him. Worse than foolish. First he breaks his own bones with it, now he's very nearly killed you."

Harry looked up at her, startled by the hard note in her voice. "He didn't m-mean to… do it." 

She said nothing, but the tightening of her lips and the suspicious glint in her eyes told Harry that she was struggling to control herself. Clearing her throat, she pulled out her wand and tapped the cuts on Harry's neck. The pain abruptly eased. A few more taps, and the only sign left of Draco's attempt to throttle him was a congealing trail of blood running into his collar. All the cuts, bruises and mangled body parts were mended. Madam Pomfrey then gave him a potion that stilled the chattering of his teeth, and he began to feel almost human again. He was just beginning to revive enough to think of going back into Draco's room, when he saw Professors Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall come out.

Harry made a move to stand up, but Madam Pomfrey halted him with a hand on his arm. "Relax."

"I have to tell Professor Dumbledore what happened!"

"I'd like to hear this, too," Snape growled, as he strode up to the bed, his face twisted with fury and his eyes trying to burn holes in Harry. "How could you be so abysmally stupid, Potter? Are you _trying_ to push Malfoy into a complete breakdown?!"

"I didn't…" Harry began, but Professor McGonagall cut him off.

"There was residual magic in that room!" she snapped, glaring balefully at Harry. "What were you doing in there with a wand, Potter?"

"It wasn't me! It was Draco…"

"You let _Malfoy_ have it?" McGonagall gasped.

"No! You don't understand!" Harry looked wildly from one face to the other until he found Dumbledore standing at his side. Turning to the old wizard, as the most reasonable and likely to listen of the group, he cried, urgently, "Draco made a Patronus!"

Madam Pomfrey gasped, and Professor McGonagall gave a derisive sort.

Dumbledore eyed Harry curiously. "Was it a true Patronus?"

"It couldn't be," Snape insisted. "Potter is the only student in the school who can produce a true Patronus, and we all know it. Malfoy's never been taught the spell, much less how to cast it properly."

"He's seen me do it," Harry protested, but the teachers rolled over him inexorably, giving him no chance to explain.

"You must have imagined it," McGonagall said. 

"Another of Potter's famous delusions," Snape added, smugly.

"I don't know about any Patronus," Madam Pomfrey interjected, "but Malfoy almost crushed his windpipe and cut the side of his neck to ribbons with that hand of his!"

"Why would Draco attack you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked. "And why with a Patronus?"

"Even if Malfoy _could_ make a Patronus…"

"He couldn't possibly without a wand…"

"That adamant hand is a menace, Headmaster, especially with the fingers gone!"

"_Listen to me!_" Harry shouted over the din. "Draco made a Patronus, _with his hand!_"

Dead silence met this announcement.

"He did it with his hand. It worked just like a wand, and the Patronus came out of his fingertip. You have to believe me, Professor Dumbledore. I was right there. I saw him do it."

"I believe you, Harry."

"The hand is a wand?" Snape asked, too flabbergasted even to sneer.

Dumbledore pursed his lips thoughtfully, his eyes dwelling on Harry. "Adamant is a magical substance, and the hand is finely attuned to Draco's wizarding power. It is a logical consequence we should have foreseen."

"Oh, my," McGonagall murmured.

"Just out of curiosity, Harry, did you see what form the Patronus took?"

Harry shook his head. "It came at me so fast all I saw was silver mist. It knocked me flat on my back and charged me."

Dumbledore's face grew even more thoughtful. "A true Patronus, then, and a powerful one."

"What I'd like to know," Snape growled, having recovered his composure and his usual sour tone, "is what Potter did to inspire this show of force."

"Nothing! I just…" Harry bit off his words abruptly as he realized that he did not have the nerve to tell Snape he had tried to kiss Draco. "I guess I got too close to him," he ended, weakly.

"Clearly, Draco mistook him for a Dementor," Dumbledore said. "Perhaps it's the black robe."

"I'm wearing a black robe, and he didn't throw a Patronus at _me_," Snape pointed out.

"Well, whatever the reason, we must now deal with the problem of Mr. Malfoy's hand."

"It will have to come off," Madam Pomfrey stated, flatly. "I won't have him on my ward with that thing, in his current state."

Harry's insides went cold with horror, but he did not dare to protest. It was a mark of how shaken they all were by Draco's behavior that not one of them said a word. Not even Snape. They all stood in grim silence, looking at Dumbledore, waiting for his decision.

Finally, the Headmaster nodded. His face was suddenly weary and lined with age, his eyes dark with sorrow. "I believe you're right, Poppy." 

Without looking at any of the faces turned so anxiously to him, Dumbledore strode over to the blank wall and raised his wand. A muttered spell, a light touch with the wand, and a large section of the wall vanished. Harry hopped off the bed and slipped between McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey to move up beside Dumbledore. He stood, staring at the small, frozen figure in the bed, and he thought that the pain would swallow him whole. It wouldn't have been so bad if they had caught Draco with any other expression on his face, but the binding hex had trapped him in the moment he awoke from the stunning spell, his eyes wide and glazed with terror, his mouth half open in a cry that never happened. Looking at him, Harry did not know which he wanted more – to crawl into the bed and wrap his arms around Draco, or to find a very dark hole to hide in until he came back to himself.

From close behind Harry, McGonagall muttered, "This is absolutely appalling. I can't believe what we're doing."

"Do we have a choice?" Dumbledore asked, softly. The teachers said nothing, but their expressions were answer enough. "Then let's get it done." Turning to Harry, he said, "Mr. Potter, I want you to go to my office and wait for me there."

"But I want to help!" Harry protested.

"You can't. And considering how Draco reacted the last time he saw you, I think it would be very unwise for you to try. When we're certain that he's recovered from this latest break, I'll let you back in his room, but not until then, and not when we have delicate magic to perform that requires all our attention."

Too numbed by Dumbledore's words to react, Harry watched the teachers file through the door into Draco's room. The transparent patch of wall remained, so he could see them move up to the bed and place themselves around it. Madam Pomfrey hovered beside him, looking him over anxiously.

"Go on, Potter," she said, "it will be over soon."

"I should be here in case…" 

"That's a very bad idea. Malfoy doesn't need you, and you don't need to watch this. For once, will you do as you're told and take care of yourself?"

Harry watched Dumbledore bend over Draco's rigid, motionless form and pull out his wand, and he shuddered. Sickness rose in him, and a terrible chill that reminded him of a Dementor's breath on him. He cast one more glance into Draco's room, then nodded and turned for the door.

*** *** ***

Harry had to wait only a very few minutes for Dumbledore to join him. The Headmaster came into his office carrying an ornate wooden box, which he set very carefully on the desk. Then he turned to Harry and said, with no trace of his usual smile, "Well, that's done. Let's have a cup of tea and a chat."

Harry obediently took the wingback chair Dumbledore offered him and accepted a steaming cup of tea. The chair had deep, comfortable padding, and the tea smelled delicious. Harry was just beginning to relax, when a knock sounded on the door and Professor Snape stalked into the room. Harry's feeling of well-being fled. He cast Dumbledore a nervous look but received only a bland smile in return.

"Sit down, Severus. Join us. Would you like some tea?"

Dumbledore took his time stirring milk and sugar into his own cup, while Snape slouched in the chair opposite Harry, giving him long, cold, faintly menacing looks in between sips of tea. Finally, Dumbledore finished clattering about with spoons and saucers. He sat back in his chair, took a sip, and sighed in appreciation.

"Now, Harry, let us begin with what happened downstairs. You know a good deal more about what upset Mr. Malfoy than you're telling us."

Harry felt his stomach do a slow, queasy roll at the realization that he would have to tell them everything. He would have to admit that Draco, the person he loved most in this world, had looked at him and seen a Dementor – not Harry's hands cradling his face, but a Dementor's slimy, rotting fingers dragging him toward his death; not Harry's face close to his, but a Dementor's featureless mask, with its ragged, sucking hole of a mouth stooping to claim him. How could he admit such a thing to Snape, when he could not bear to admit it to himself?

"Suppose you try again," Dumbledore said, breaking in on his thoughts. "And remember that Professor Snape has Draco's best interests at heart as much as you or I. You can speak freely in front of him."

Harry took a deep breath, mustered his courage, and blurted out, "I tried to kiss him." He cringed slightly, waiting for Snape to lash out at him, but no attack came, so he went on, "I thought he recognized me. I thought he smiled at me and knew who I was, and I wanted… well, I didn't think it would frighten him."

"You didn't think at all, apparently," Snape growled.

"Severus." Dumbledore threw the Potions Master a sharp glance. "Go on, Harry."

Harry told them everything he remembered, from the way he had held Draco's face between his hands to the moment that he had felt Draco's fingers around his throat. Neither man interrupted him, until he reached the end of his account and the most disturbing part of it. "He said something, when he attacked me. Something I don't understand."

"What was that?" Dumbledore asked.

"He said he was sorry."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "He recognized you?"

"Not exactly. I mean… I'm not sure he was saying it to _me_."

"He wouldn't apologize to a Dementor," Snape interjected. "He must have known it was you."

"Whoever he thought I was, he knew he was hurting me and was sorry for it."

Dumbledore frowned thoughtfully down into his tea for some moments. Then he abruptly looked up and asked, "Harry, when the Ravenclaws came into the hospital wing last night, what were they wearing?"

"Wearing?"

"Yes. Were they in their school robes? Pajamas? Dressing gowns?"

"Most of them were in their robes, I think."

"Hm."

Harry unconsciously brushed a hand down the front of his own rather rumpled, scruffy robe. He'd fallen asleep in it last night, both sitting in the hospital wing and later in the dormitory, and it was beginning to show signs of neglect.

"What are you thinking, Headmaster?" Snape asked. 

"I am remembering that both Dementors and Death Eaters wear black."

Snape gave a snort of disgust. "Haven't we already determined that it was Potter's ill-timed burst of affection that triggered Malfoy's attack, not his black robe?"

"Ah, but what of his attempted leap from the window of the hospital wing last night? That group of students did nothing to threaten him at all, beyond startling him out of a deep sleep."

"He woke up, saw a mob of people in black robes and… tried to kill himself?" Harry ventured, doubtfully.

"I should think it more likely that he tried to escape," Dumbledore said.

"By jumping out a window? Did he think he could fly?"

"You are assuming that Draco was rational enough to assess the danger and make a choice."

"He didn't know where he was," Snape said, his voice too weary to sound bitter or sneering. "He didn't stop to think. He just ran."

"From a bunch of Dementors," Harry murmured.

Dumbledore sighed and lifted a hand to rub his eyes. "Who knows what he saw? Who knows what he really saw when he looked at you today and apologized for killing you?"

Harry swallowed to clear the tightness from his throat and asked, "Professor, how are we going to find out what happened to him?"

"That's a very good question, Mr. Potter. I'm afraid I don't have an answer."

"We could try Veritaserum," Snape offered.

"Veritaserum can only compel the truth as the subject knows it. Draco's mind is so fragmented that he could likely tell us very little."

"There must be some memories left intact. Assuming that it was some kind of trauma that reduced him to this… this…"

"Memories from before the trauma?" Dumbledore suggested, sparing him the need to find the right word. "Things he saw and experienced when his mind was still whole? It's certainly possible, but it would be difficult to unearth them with a truth serum, not knowing what questions to pose or promptings to use. Better to sort through the memories themselves to find the whole ones."

Snape's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You have a plan."

"Say, rather, a glimmer of an idea. Let me sleep on it. In the meantime, we have other sources of information." Dumbledore slid open a drawer in the desk and took out a roll of parchment. Tapping it lightly against his nose, he gave Harry one of those sudden, twinkling smiles that filled his entire face with impish delight. "I received a letter by this morning's owl post. A most interesting letter."

"From Sirius?" Harry asked, eagerly.

"No, Sirius' letter came last night. I'll tell you all about that in a moment. This letter came from an old friend of mine at the Ministry of Magic. A Mr. Horace Shunpike."

Snape gave a grunt of recognition. "Department of Magical Transportation, isn't he?"

"Indeed. It's through his position at the Ministry that he got his son the job of conductor on the Knight Bus."

"Stan Shunpike!" Harry exclaimed.

"Precisely. Stan is a good fellow, but not the sharpest quill in the inkwell, if you catch my meaning."

Harry, having spent an entire night in Stan's company, knew exactly what Dumbledore meant.

"Poor Horace was afraid he'd turn out to be a squib. When Stan proved to be a wizard after all, he resolved to find the boy a respectable job among other wizards, so he arranged for him to work on the Knight Bus. He can get into little trouble there…"

"Headmaster," Snape said, wearily, "is there a purpose to this bit of Shunpike Family History?"

"There is. You will recall that I sent out messages, all over Great Britain, warning those wizards sympathetic to our cause to be on the lookout for Draco Malfoy. One of those messages went to our friends in the Department of Magical Transportation, asking that anyone who found Draco bring him to Hogwarts immediately."

"Yes, yes, what of it?"

Dumbledore held up the scroll. "It was Stan Shunpike who found him."

Harry gaped at Dumbledore. "He came here on the Knight Bus?!"

"So it would seem. Here is what Horace has to say about it." Unrolling the parchment, Dumbledore held it up between his long fingers and read:

_'Headmaster,_

_I hope, by now, you've got young Malfoy safe and don't need my news, late as it is, but Arthur says as how you'll want it any road, so I'm sending it along by the fastest owl I can find. _

_It seems my boy, Stan, found your missing student out in the middle of Salisbury Plain – late Thursday night or early Friday morning this would be – and took him to Hogsmeade. Malfoy flagged down the Bus, but as he had no money and was acting a bit barmy, Stan was all for leaving him there. Ernie recognized him from that poster you sent round, so they took him aboard, gave him some hot chocolate, and brought him to the Three Broomsticks. _

_The way Stan tells it, they were all for sending word up to the castle right then, but Malfoy scarpered before they could decide how to reach you, so Stan and Ernie went back to their usual route like nothing had happened. I was ready to knock their heads together, the pair of them, for letting the boy go off alone and for waiting so long to tell me about it. But what's done is done, and I'll swear my Stan meant no harm, for all he's a bloody great pillock._

_If you haven't found Malfoy yet, best start looking in Hogsmeade. If you have, you can thank the Department of Magical Transportation for it. Either way, you owe the Ministry seventeen sickles – that's the fare from Salisbury Plain to Hogsmeade, plus two extra for the chocolate._

_Respectfully,_

_Horace Shunpike'_

Dumbledore let the parchment curl up on itself and said, with evident satisfaction, "Salisbury Plain." 

"That's near the Malfoy estate, isn't it?" Snape asked.

"Quite. But that is not what makes my thumbs prick when I hear the name." He dropped the scroll into the drawer and pulled out another piece of parchment, this one a rough fragment torn from some larger piece. "Last night, I received an owl from Sirius. He reports that Voldemort's Equinoctial ritual was disrupted by violence in the small hours of Friday morning. Deaths are rumored, though no one will venture a guess as to who or how many died, and the Death Eaters have all disappeared. Gone to ground, it would seem. The location of their disastrous meeting was the Giants Dance."

"Ah!"

"The Giants Dance?" Harry repeated, blankly.

"The Muggles call it Stonehenge," Dumbledore said. 

Harry gaped at him in surprise and growing horror, as the pieces began to drop into place in his mind. "That's on Salisbury Plain! And that means Draco was…"

"I'm afraid so, Harry. Draco was there."

Harry shivered, fear crawling like cold fingers over his skin. "Dementors and Death Eaters." He closed his eyes very tightly, though it did nothing to block out the image in his head. "Poor Draco."

"He made it out," Snape said, gruffly, and Harry had the odd impression that he was trying to be reassuring. "He made it back here."

A loud rap on the door saved Harry the trouble of finding a response to Snape's awkward kindness. The door swung open under its own power, and Professor Moody stumped into the room. He fixed Dumbledore with his normal eye, while the magic one swiveled madly to look in every nook and cranny at once.

"You have a visitor, Albus."

"How nice!" Dumbledore rose from his chair and gave Moody a wide, expectant smile. "Why don't you show our guest in?"

Moody smiled back, but it was not a pleasant sight. "I thought you might want a bit of advance warning on this one."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed." The smile widened into a leer. "It's Narcissa Malfoy."

**_To be continued…_**


	6. Love, Hate and Memory

**Chapter 5: _Love, Hate and Memory_**

Narcissa sat very stiffly in her chair, very upright, her elegant hands clenched tightly together in her lap. She had refused a cup of tea and now seemed intent upon holding herself completely aloof from her surroundings. Her face – so unlike her son's and yet so similar in expression – was rigid with control and lined with the evidence of recent grief. Her eyes did not lift to meet Dumbledore's. They remained fixed on the desktop, looking heavy and shadowed.

Dumbledore remembered her well from her days at Hogwarts, but he had never been fond of the cold, lovely, disdainful Narcissa Black. She came from a family that produced both the best and the worst of wizards – those who loved and those who hated, always with more passion than was good for them. Dumbledore had held out little hope that Narcissa would prove to be the loving sort, even before she allied herself with Lucius Malfoy. Since her marriage, he had filed her away in his mind as an unknown but likely danger. She had done nothing to openly aid Voldemort, but neither had she stood up against her Death Eater husband and his dark master. And by her silent acquiescence, she chose to be counted with the enemy.

Alastor Moody lurked in the shadows beside the tall windows, a looming, supportive presence with his unshakable loyalty and magic eye. Dumbledore was glad to have him there, but he did not acknowledge his presence, hoping Narcissa would forget about him. With any luck, Moody would see what Dumbledore could not and give him a different perspective on the confrontation to come. For it would be a confrontation – veiled, perhaps, and cautious, but entirely hostile.

He smiled at Narcissa, his face a study in bland geniality, and asked, "What can I do for you, Mrs. Malfoy?"

"I am concerned about my son." She spoke coldly, her eyes veiled behind long lashes to mask whatever emotion they held.

"Of course you are. So are we all."

"It would seem so, to judge by the effort you have put into finding him. One would almost think you valued him."

Dumbledore ignored the caustic note in her voice and answered solemnly, "I value all of my students. I would do the same for any one of them that went missing in such a troubling and mysterious way."

"What you would do for any one of your students is not my concern, only what you have done for – or to – Draco. His welfare is the only thing that matters to me."

"The only thing?" Dumbledore asked, a hint of amusement in his mild words.

Narcissa's jaw tightened, and her heavy eyelids lifted to reveal pale, ice-blue eyes. Dumbledore saw her lips tighten in an effort at control that reminded him very strongly of Draco. "He is my son."

"I am aware of that."

Her irritation growing with every oblique response he gave, she snapped, "I want to see him. Take me to him, at once."

"I am truly sorry, my dear Narcissa, but that is not possible."

"Do you mean to tell me you haven't found him? But you called off the search! Why would you do that if…" Narcissa swallowed once, her throat working, then demanded, "Why did you stop looking for him?"

"I felt it was no longer necessary."

"Then either he is here, in your keeping, or he is dead. Which is it, Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore hesitated for a bare moment. He was unwilling to tell Narcissa outright where her son was, but neither could he lie to her face and tell her that he was dead. Draco was safe in the castle. She could not remove him by guile or by force, and Hogwarts had already proven strong enough to withstand an attack from Voldemort himself. What could Narcissa Malfoy do that the Dark Lord could not?

"He is here."

Narcissa surged to her feet and stood majestically over him, looking down her aristocratic nose. "Take me to him!"

"Sit down, my dear."

"I want Draco, and I won't leave this castle without him!"

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but you will most certainly be leaving, and just as certainly without your son." Narcissa's snapping eyes met Dumbledore's steady ones, locked in silent combat, and hers quickly fell. "Sit down," he repeated, very softly.

Narcissa sank back into her chair, but the fire had not gone out of her. Her chin lifted arrogantly, and her voice dripped with contempt when she said, "Don't think you can intimidate me, Dumbledore. Draco is underage. He is my son and my responsibility, and I say that he is to return home with me. Neither you nor any other wizard in this castle has the right to say otherwise."

"On the contrary. Draco himself has that right, and he has made his choice." Her pinched nostrils flared in disgust, and Dumbledore went on firmly, before she could interrupt, "Go home, Narcissa, and tell Lucius that you are no more welcome a petitioner at my door than is he."

"Lucius did not send me." The words seemed to be wrenched out of her, and Dumbledore could hear the truth in them. But at the same time, he could hear currents of other, colder truths flowing beneath this overt one.

"Who, then? His master?"

"I am here on behalf of my son and no other."

"Then you may rest assured that he is safe."

"Is that why he ran away?" Dumbledore's brows lifted in a silent query, and Narcissa sneered faintly at him. "You speak a great deal of nonsense about Draco's choice, and about protecting him from his own family, but you do not fool me, Albus Dumbledore. I know that Draco is not here by his own choice. Whatever lies and spells you wove to hold him must have grown weak, indeed, for him to escape. Or did you underestimate his strength? He is a Malfoy, remember. And a Black. He comes from the finest and oldest of wizarding stock…"

"I am well aware of his pedigree, Narcissa, and I would never make the mistake of underestimating him. Or his mother."

"Good. Then you must know that I will not abandon my son to your tender mercies."

"If you really  want to help Draco, you'll leave this castle at once and pretend you do not know where he is."

"Why? So you can break his mind, completely?"

Dumbledore gazed thoughtfully into her blazing eyes, his own expression carefully neutral. The mingled triumph, anger and sorrow he felt were hidden from any eye less penetrating than Moody's magical one, and his voice was grave. "When have I ever done Voldemort's work for him? My task is to heal the wounds his evil inflicts, not deepen them."

"How like you to retreat into platitudes! And how like you to blame the Dark Lord for the hurts you yourself inflict! Did the Dark Lord cut off Draco's hand? Did I? Did Lucius?"

"Where did you see Draco?"

The swift, hard question caught Narcissa unawares, as Dumbledore had intended, and cut short her tirade. She stared at him, seeming only at that moment to understand that she had betrayed herself, and shut her mouth with a snap.

"It's a simple question. Where did you last see him?"

She licked her suddenly dry lips and answered, in a rasping voice, "At the Manor."

Dumbledore nodded, not bothering to challenge this obvious lie. He knew for a certainty that Draco had not gone to the Manor, just as he knew that the boy had not fled the castle to escape his sorceries, but he deemed it wisest to let Narcissa spin her tale in her own way. For now.

"When?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Four… five days ago. I don't remember exactly."

His eyebrows rose at that, but again, he offered no comment. "How did he seem to you?"

The anger flared afresh in her eyes. "How did he seem? How do you think?! He was half out of his wits, distraught, sick in body and mind!"

Dumbledore made a polite, sympathetic noise that she ignored as she continued to rail.

"He attacked his own father with that abomination of a hand… is that how you did it? How you corrupted him and bound him? Through the hand? Or is it Potter who holds him in thrall?"

"I would be careful of what I say, Narcissa."

Either she did not hear the warning in his voice or she chose to ignore it. "You hate Lucius Malfoy and you hope to injure the Dark Lord through him, so you turn my son into a…"

She broke off, and Dumbledore fancied that he saw tears shining in her eyes.

"Into a what?"

"A traitor! A mad thing! A horrid, debased, shameful mockery of the beautiful boy he was!"

"I have done nothing to Draco but try to help him."

"_You gave him to Harry Potter!_"

Dumbledore said nothing, only looked into her grief-ravaged face and wondered from where the grief sprang. Her rage and pain were very real, as was her desperation to reach her son, but that told Dumbledore very little that could guide him. 

"You're nothing but a… a filthy panderer!" she hissed. "When I think of what you and Potter, between you, have done to Draco, I could kill you. Gladly. Easily. I'd even risk Azkaban for the chance to do it, if I thought I would succeed!"

"And what would you do to your son?"

She bared her teeth in a feral snarl. "Get him away from _you_."

"That's not enough." He sighed with real regret and pushed back his chair. "I do not know what you truly want with Draco. Perhaps you mean only to protect him from me, misguided though your desire is. But I am no threat to him, Narcissa, and I am his best hope for survival. He stays with me."

He rose to his feet and gestured toward the shadows where Moody lurked. "Alastor, will you escort Mrs. Malfoy to the gates?"

Narcissa also rose. She drew herself up to her full, regal height, and pulled her icy composure around her like a cloak. "I will not leave without Draco."

Dumbledore spoke pleasantly, as if he had not heard her cold demand. "We will take the best possible care of your son. When we have found the source of his illness and done what we can to cure it, I will once again give him the choice to return to you. But you had best prepare yourself for his answer, my dear. There is very little chance that he will choose to leave Hogwarts. Or Harry."

"Do not speak of that boy to me. He is your willing tool. Be satisfied with him, and leave Draco to those who love him."

"Did it ever occur to you that Harry Potter loves him, too?"

Narcissa gave him one long, fulminating look, then spun on her heel and stalked to the door without another word. She halted at the closed door, waiting for the escort she knew she could not refuse, and pretended not to hear Dumbledore speak to Moody.

"See our guest safely off the grounds, Alastor, then return here."

Moody grunted his assent and clumped over to the door. Dumbledore lifted his hand, and the door opened of its own accord. Narcissa went through it, followed closely by the glowering Moody, and the door swung shut behind them. 

Only then, when he was completely alone, did Dumbledore sink back into his chair. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, he folded his hands precisely before him, closed his eyes, and fell completely still. No flicker of emotion crossed his face, but behind his eyelids, he was reliving every moment, every nuance of the meeting that had just ended.

He was certain of many things. Narcissa had lied to him, repeatedly. She knew far more of Draco's disappearance from Hogwarts than she would admit. Some compulsion other than her love for her son had brought her here, but it was not Lucius Malfoy. She was deeply angry at what had happened to Draco in the last few months – his choice to stay at Hogwarts, his injury, his attachment to Harry – and honestly believed that all of it was a plot hatched by Dumbledore to punish her husband. She was in real pain, grieving, and afraid.

But afraid of what? Dumbledore wondered. Was she afraid for Draco? Afraid of what Lucius' enemies might do to him while he was in their power? Or afraid of what waited for him when she took him from Dumbledore's protection, as she clearly felt she must?

He was still pondering this question when he heard the sigh of the door swinging open and the dull clunk of Moody's clawed foot against the floor. Lifting his head, he smiled a welcome that the irascible Moody met with a scowl.  Moody stumped across the room and eased himself into a chair. He a grunted a refusal at Dumbledore's offer of tea, pulled his flask from his pocket, and took a long swallow of its contents, while Dumbledore watched him with a knowing twinkle in his eye. 

"Well, Alastor," the old wizard asked, pleasantly, when Moody had pocketed the flask again, "what do you think?"

Moody gave another grunt. "I think you'd be a great fool to believe one word that woman says."

One corner of Dumbledore's mouth lifted in a humorless half-smile. "You, I take it, do not believe her?"

"I do not," Moody stated, flatly. "Whatever she may or may not feel for her son, she's here on Lucius Malfoy's orders. Or worse. And if you give her the boy, she'll take him straight to You-Know-Who."

Dumbledore settled back in his chair and let his eyes fall nearly closed, masking his thoughts from Moody's normal eye, though he could do nothing to protect himself from the magical one. "When the castle was under siege and Lucius came to demand his son's release, you counseled me to give Draco to him. Do you say the same, now?"

Moody shifted uncomfortably in his chair and growled, "No."

For the first time, a genuine smile touched Dumbledore's face. "Are you coming around to my way of thinking?"

"Not bloody likely. But I've watched that boy closely since the siege," Moody grinned and pulled his magical eye around to stare straight at Dumbledore, "_very_ closely, and he's done precisely nothing to warrant suspicion. Unless you count this messy business with Potter."

"Messy?" Dumbledore repeated, eyebrows raised.

Moody gave a sour bark of laughter. "I don't care how nicely he cleans up, Dumbledore, he's still Lucius Malfoy's son, and he's poison where Potter is concerned."

"Draco has done nothing to harm Harry."

"Even you can't really believe that." Moody waved a hand toward the windows. "Go on. Go down to Diagon Alley, have a drink at the Three Broomsticks, and chat up some of your old friends there. Ask them what Malfoy has done to their precious Harry Potter. Talk to the members of the Order. Talk to Arthur Weasley."

Dumbledore felt a stab of real dismay at that. "Arthur?"

"Had an owl from him just last week, when you were still turning over every rock in Britain to find the boy. He told me, point blank, that we ought to leave well enough alone. Give up the search and thank our stars Malfoy was gone."

Dumbledore blinked at him in patent disbelief. "Arthur?"

"Stop saying 'Arthur' like you've never heard the name before. You know how Arthur and Molly feel about Potter. They were spitting mad when one of their brood wrote home about his fling with Malfoy. Molly was all for flying up here to give you a piece of her mind and Potter a good, strong purgative to set him to rights. When Arthur talked her out of that, she threatened to send Malfoy a Howler that would singe off his eyebrows."

"I'm relieved that she didn't," Dumbledore said, a trifle weakly.

"You can thank me for that. I told the pair of them to stay out of it and let you manage this your own way."

"Thank you, Alastor."

He waved that away and went on, "You're sitting on the world's biggest dung bomb, Albus, and when it goes off, we'll all be up to our necks in it. I don't say Malfoy will do anything deliberately. As far as I can tell, he's completely loyal to Potter. But there's not one wizard in ten who'll forget who he is or forgive him for putting his dirty hands on their precious hero, and if you think you can win them over by telling them that Potter _loves_ him, you're a damned fool."

Dumbledore stared into Moody's mismatched eyes, reading his utter sincerity and the concern behind his blunt words. "And believing all this, you still would not give Draco to his mother?"

Moody's jaw worked for a moment as he struggled against his baser impulses, then he answered, curtly, "You promised him your protection."

"So I did." Dumbledore pushed back his chair with a decisive gesture and rose to his feet. "If I mean to keep that promise, I must delay no longer. Do you have an empty Pensieve among your many tools, Alastor?"

"I think so." Moody squinted up at him with his normal eye. "What's in your mind, Dumbledore?"

"It's time to find out what happened to Draco."

"With the Pensieve?"

"It is the only safe means I can devise to sort through his memories and find those that are whole. I don't know that we'll find anything useful in his mind, shattered as it is, but we have to try, and quickly."

Moody grunted his assent. "Before Narcissa comes back. She made sure I got that message loud and clear, before she left – she's coming back, and she's not coming alone." His scarred face contorted in a fierce smile. "I don't suppose she'll bring Lucius with her next time and save us the trouble of finding him?"

"We can only hope." Turning to one of the portraits on the wall behind him, Dumbledore called, "Phineas!"

The sly-faced wizard in the portrait cracked open one eye and gave a theatrical yawn. "You called?"

Moody growled at the lazy, sneering note in the wizard's voice, but Dumbledore only smiled at the former Headmaster. "I did, indeed. I need you to take a message to Severus Snape." 

Phineas perked up visibly, even going so far as to open his eyes wide and straighten up in his frame, smoothing his green and silver robes with one spidery hand. 

"Tell him to meet me in my office as soon as his class is dismissed."

"Is that all?" Phineas asked, querulously. "Why not send an owl?"

"The message is urgent, Phineas. See that he gets it, _before_ you take a nostalgic tour of the dungeons, if you please!" 

Phineas gave an elaborate, ironic bow and disappeared from his canvas, only to appear in Armando Dippet's picture nearby and crowd rudely past him. He pushed and prodded his way through several portraits, starting the various Headmaster's grumbling, before he finally moved out of the tower room and beyond the range of Dumbledore's sight.

"Come, Alastor."

Dumbledore led Moody swiftly out the door and down the spiral stair to the gargoyle. They hurried along an empty corridor, around a couple of corners, past classrooms full of muted voices, and finally to the door of Moody's office. Inside, Dumbledore stood back and let Moody approach his enormous trunk, with its seven locks, alone. The old auror did not like to have anyone stand at his back, nor did he relish prying eyes when he was going through his most personal and valuable belongings. 

Dumbledore watched him unlock three different locks, each time revealing a different collection of Dark Arts detection tools, books, clothing and general clutter inside the trunk. Each time the lid swung up, he rifled through the contents, muttering, then slammed the lid and tried another key. On the fourth try, he pushed aside an Invisibility cloak and a spare wooden leg, then gave a grunt of satisfaction. Lifting a wide stone basin in both hands, he held it out to Dumbledore.

"It's a bit dusty."

Dumbledore took the Pensieve from him and blew gently into it. A plume of dust rose to tickle his nose. "Excellent." He began wiping it with one wide sleeve, as he turned for the door. "Go back to my office and wait there for me, please. This may take a while."

"Dumbledore…" The Headmaster halted and shot him a questioning look. "Are you sure you know what you're about? That boy's in bad shape. We don't know what it will do to him to pull out his memories and poke around in them."

"If my hunch is right, it may well save his life."

Moody grunted and heaved himself to his feet. "Better hurry, then. The ice queen could be back any time."

Dumbledore nodded once and strode out of the room.

*** *** ***

The tray lay on the mattress between the two boys, piled with generous portions of food, most of which could be eaten with fingers. Madam Pomfrey had not allowed any knives or forks into the room, Harry noticed, and the spoons were wooden ones from the kitchen rather than the polished silver cutlery used in the Great Hall. This did not bother Harry, who was hungry enough to eat a plate full of Aunt Petunia's celery sticks right now, and he tucked in without hesitation. 

As he scooped up another large spoonful of beef casserole and stuffed it in his mouth, he watched the boy seated across from him intently. Draco gave no sign that he noticed Harry's scrutiny or the meal in front of him. He sat cross-legged on the mattress, where Madam Pomfrey had told him to sit, and stared vacantly at the middle distance. His face, usually so beautiful in its cool perfection, was thin and colorless, with dark hollows under his eyes and cheekbones. His eyes were dull, his hair hanging in a snarl about his shoulders, and the wound on his cheek burning an angry red against his oddly transparent skin. He looked completely awful. 

Some corner of Harry's mind noticed and cried out in pain to see his archangel so dreadfully changed, so obviously suffering. But most of him was absorbed with the terrible emptiness of Draco's gaze and the lack of recognition or interest in his face. He was torn between his passionate wish to have the boy he knew and loved look out of those shuttered eyes at him again, and his fear of what would happen if he did. The events of the last day had taught Harry caution. Much as he wanted Draco back, he was beginning to grasp just how damaged the other boy was and how badly he needed to hide from reality and memory right now.

Harry knew he must be careful not to push Draco into another burst of frantic violence, which meant that nearly every topic of conversation was off limits. But he also knew that Draco recognized him on some level and made an effort to respond to him when he spoke. So he kept talking, kept trying, and welcomed even the most reluctant and vague of responses to his prodding. Anything was better than empty silence.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asked, when Draco had sat for some minutes without moving.

Draco slowly dragged his gaze to Harry's face, blinked at him once or twice, and frowned as though trying very hard to remember something.

"Draco?" The frown deepened. "Aren't you going to eat?"

The other boy hesitated for a moment, then his brow cleared and he murmured, "Harry."

Harry shook his head in exasperation. "I didn't ask you my name. I asked…"

"They're gone."

"What?"

Draco's gaze drifted away from his face and wandered pointlessly about the room. "The stars. They're gone."

"They aren't gone. They're outside, where they belong. And before you ask, no, you can't go outside to look at them. Have something to eat, Draco. Please."

Obediently, Draco turned his attention to the tray and, in a natural, unthinking gesture, reached out with his left hand to pick up the spoon. He halted the movement, his empty sleeve with its neatly turned-up cuff poised above the tray, when Harry cried out,

"Don't!"

Draco lifted his arm to stare blankly at the place where his hand should be, clearly startled to find no spoon and no adamant fingers to hold it.

His voice rough with pain, Harry muttered, "Here, Draco, let me…" He picked up the spoon and pushed it into Draco's right hand. "Try that." 

Draco looked up at him, and the hurt confusion in his face made Harry want to cry. He wanted so desperately to comfort the other boy that he had to clench his hands into fists to keep from reaching out for him. He told himself that a touch would bring Draco no comfort. It would only frighten him, and Harry had promised, faithfully, not to do that again. If he screwed up this time, they would banish him from Draco's room, take away his password, and leave Draco cold and alone without him. 

"Go on," Harry urged, struggling to keep his voice even, "have some, before I eat it all myself."

Once again, Draco obeyed him, holding the spoon awkwardly in his right hand and jabbing it into the lump of casserole on his plate. He ate distractedly, as though he had no idea what his hand and mouth were doing, and did not notice when his clumsiness with the spoon spilled food across the tray and blanket. 

Harry was picking at his own meal and watching Draco eat, when he heard Madam Pomfrey's muffled voice talking to the door. As the nurse bustled into the room, Draco fell still again, his spoon halfway to his mouth. Harry caught his wrist in one hand and took the spoon from his fingers with the other, setting it back on the tray. 

He clasped the other boy's cold fingers in his own warm ones and murmured, "It's okay. It's only Madam Pomfrey."

Draco looked at him with dead eyes, his hand lying motionless in Harry's.

Madam Pomfrey came up beside them, her eyes narrowed in suspicion when she saw that Harry held Draco's hand. "I'll just take that tray. Potter, you have visitors."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Go on and see for yourself. And don't hurry back."

"But…"

"Malfoy will be just fine with me."

Harry did not want to go, and he did not want to face any of his friends right now, but he knew better than to argue with Madam Pomfrey when she used that tone. Letting go of Draco's hand, he climbed off the bed and reached up to touch the other boy's shoulder, lightly.

"I'll be back soon, Draco."

Then he turned for the door, knowing that Draco would not answer him. His steps were heavy and reluctant, but they carried him across the room all too quickly. He muttered his password to the door and heard the latch click. As he reached for the brass knob, he wondered what he could possibly say to Hermione and Ron to explain everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

Then he stepped through the door and pulled up short in surprise. "Neville?" 

"Hallo, Harry."

Harry looked from Neville Longbottom's round, anxious face to Hermione's frowning one and demanded, with a notable lack of tact, "What are you doing here?"

"We were worried about you," Hermione said, a touch of acid in her voice. "You left the tower this morning, before anyone could talk to you, and you didn't come to class." Hefting the pile of books in her arms, she added, "I thought you might want your homework, just to keep busy…"

"No, Hermione, I do _not_ want my homework!" Harry cried in exasperation. "I do not want to be distracted or kept busy or worry about how far behind I am! I have a few more important things to think about!"

Hermione's face reddened. "I was only trying to help."

"I know that." The anger drained out of him as swiftly as it had come, and he drooped under her hurt gaze. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I should have known better."

Harry looked away awkwardly, fumbling for something to say. "Where's Ron?"

"He had to stay after Charms to clean up the classroom. He had a bit of an accident."

"Charms? But Ron's really good at Charms. How could he…"

"Honestly, Harry, are you trying to be dense? He was distracted and upset, thinking about you, wondering if you were all right, and he wasn't paying attention. None of us were. So he accidentally filled the classroom with green goo, and Professor Flitwick told him to get rid of it. Neville and I came to see how you're doing, while Ron got the slime out of the candle sconces."

Harry glanced from her to Neville, chewing his lip. He knew he should be grateful for his friends' concern, but right now he had no room in him for anything but worry over Draco. They couldn't help Draco, so they couldn't help him, and their presence only forced him to come up with excuses or explanations that he did not want to bother with.

"I'm okay," he lied, woodenly.

"No, you're not, but we kind of expected that."

Neville shot a look over Harry's shoulder, toward the little room and the expanse of transparent wall, and asked, "How's Malfoy?"

"Not so good." Harry swallowed painfully. "How did… how did you guys know he was here?"

"There have been rumors all over the castle since breakfast. The Ravenclaws are spreading some pretty ugly stories."

Harry nodded glumly. He couldn't bear to tell them that the stories were probably true. Not yet.

Hermione shifted the books to one hip to free one hand and touched him lightly on the arm. "We know better than to believe rumors." 

He nodded again, wordlessly, and Hermione's lips tightened in frustration. 

"Why didn't you tell us yourself, Harry? Didn't you think we'd _care_?"

"I just… I…"

"You left us to hear about Malfoy from a bunch of snickering Ravenclaws!"

"I'm sorry, Hermione. Honestly." The dejection in his voice deflated her anger instantly and brought the gleam of tears to her eyes. "I'm not trying to keep things from you."

She squeezed his arm. "It's okay. Never mind."

"I just want Draco back. I can't think about anything else, and I can't figure out how to _get_ him back, so my mind goes around and around in circles, never getting anywhere. I feel like I haven't slept in weeks."

"You haven't," Neville pointed out, softly.

"How bad is he, really?" Hermione asked.

"Bad."

"The Ravenclaws are saying that he tried to jump out a window last night."

"He did. Madam Pomfrey hit him with a Supefying Charm just in time, or he'd have…"

At that moment, Neville brushed past Harry, cutting him off, and drifted up to the transparent wall. His eyes were glued to the boy in the bed, and his face was full of a kind of horrified fascination. Very slowly, he lifted a hand to touch the invisible stone.

"Neville?"

Neville did not turn at the sound of Harry's voice, but he spoke quietly to his friends as they drew up beside him. "His hand is gone."

Hermione gasped, "Oh, Harry! Where's his hand?"

"Dumbledore took it off." Standing outside the room like this, with his friends beside him, Harry saw Draco with detached eyes, as Hermione would see him, and felt an aching pity fill him. Then he turned to look at Neville and felt a whole different kind of pity. Dropping his voice to a private murmur, he bent close to Neville and said, "Maybe you shouldn't be here."

Neville gave a start and turned to face Harry. Their eyes met, and a flash of understanding passed between them. When Harry looked away, he was sure Neville knew that Harry was in on his secret about his parents and equally sure that Neville knew he wouldn't blab it to anyone.

"I'd like to help, if I can," Neville murmured.

Before Harry could find an answer, Hermione spoke up on the other side of him. "What's that thing on his face, Harry?"

"We don't know. Dumbledore thinks it's a rune or symbol of some kind…"

"Well, obviously, it's an M."

"What?" Harry stared at her for a moment, then at Draco, who sat huddled on the bed with his left profile turned toward them. The burn was a fierce, livid red against his white cheek, and with the swelling gone, the shape of it was much clearer than before. As he studied it, Harry felt a prickle go down his back. He had seen that shape somewhere. He was sure of it.

"It's hard to see, with those marks around it, and it's kind of crooked, but there's not doubt about it. That's an M."

"Oh, my God."

Hermione tilted her head to one side, frowning. "From here, it almost looks like the one in the Malfoy Family crest."

Harry's stomach clenched. "How… how would you know that?"

"Well, I've seen it, haven't I? There's a picture of it in _Great Wizarding Families of Britain_. And it's on half of Malfoy's stuff." She shot Harry an exasperated look and added, "Honestly, didn't you notice the big, silver Ms all over everything he owns?"

"Yes." The clenching turned to a twisting, heaving sensation, and Harry swallowed convulsively, afraid his lunch was about to come back up. He knew now exactly where he had seen that particular M – on Draco's ring. The one his father had given him. It was cut into the big emerald, with fancy curlicues around it and something that looked like tiny flames, just exactly like the blurred, torn spots on Draco's face. "I have to tell Dumbledore," he muttered.

"Tell me what, Mr. Potter?"

All three Gryffindors spun around to find Professor Dumbledore standing behind them. He held something in both his hands that was covered with a very large linen handkerchief, and his face looked unusually grave. 

"Malfoy's face!" Harry exclaimed, eagerly. "Hermione figured out what the burn means!"

"I heard. That was very astute of you, Miss Granger, but then, I am hardly surprised." He looked at them over the tops of his spectacles, his eyes fixing longest on Neville, and said, "It is nearly time for your next class. You two had better hurry."

"What about Harry?" Hermione asked.

"I need Harry for the moment." Smiling at Neville, he asked, "How is your grandmother, Mr. Longbottom? In excellent health, as always?"

"Yes, Professor." Neville flushed under Dumbledore's kindly gaze and ducked his head. He said goodbye to Harry hurried out of the room in Hermione's wake, leaving Harry alone with Dumbledore.

"Come along, Harry. We have work to do."

Dumbledore led him into Draco's room, startling Madam Pomfrey up out of her chair. Draco gave no sign of noticing their entrance. Handing the draped object to Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore pulled out his wand."

"Headmaster!" the nurse protested.

"Don't worry, Poppy. Young Mr. Malfoy will not get his hands on it." He flourished the wand, and a funny, squat little table on crocodile legs appeared beside the bed. At his gesture, Madam Pomfrey set down the thing she held on it. 

"Now, Harry, if you please."

Harry stepped closer, letting Dumbledore guide him up to the bed where Draco sat, oblivious to the goings-on around him.

"Poppy, I think he'll be more comfortable lying down, and we'd best put a partial binding hex on him. Just enough to make sure he stays put. Harry, I think a shot of your wizarding power would be in order. We aren't going to hurt him, but we may well frighten him at first, and your power seems to both calm and warm him."

As he spoke, Dumbledore caught Draco by the shoulders and pushed him gently back onto the bed. At first, Draco did not react, but when Madam Pomfrey pinned him to the mattress and Dumbledore raised his wand, his eyes widened in panic and he began to struggle.

"No!" Draco gasped, his blank eyes fixed in horror on Dumbledore's face. "No!"

"It's okay, Draco." Harry caught his right hand and held it very tightly, letting a surge of power flow down his arms and into the other boy. "It won't hurt, I promise."

"Harry? No… _don't!_"

"It's okay." Gold flames began to flicker and dance before Harry's eyes. "Trust me."

Dumbledore muttered a few words and touched Draco with his wand. The boy's movements abruptly stilled, but the fear did not leave his face. Harry could feel the pulse in Draco's wrist beneath his fingers. It was racing.

"What are you going to do to him?" Harry asked, nervously.

In answer, Dumbledore slid the little crocodile table forward and pulled off the cloth to reveal a Pensieve. Harry blinked, trying to clear his vision and see into it, but the interference from his own power was brighter than the silvery glow from inside the stone bowl. He had the impression that it was empty, except for a sheen of light covering the inner surface, but he couldn't be sure.

"I am going to borrow his memories," Dumbledore said.

The old wizard touched his wand to Draco's temple. When he drew it away, a long thread of light came with it, sliding through the strands of bright hair. With a fluid gesture, Dumbledore placed the thread in the Pensieve, where it settled to the bottom and mingled with the light clinging to the bowl. Another strand of memory followed, then another, and in a few moments, the bowl began to fill with silver-white liquid. 

Harry found that he could not keep his eyes away from the moving surface, though he ought to be concentrating on Draco and his own flow of power. As he stared at the swirling, half-formed images that moved across the liquid's surface, he caught glimpses of familiar faces. Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey, Snape, and Harry himself. They all looked strange, as if their faces had been broken and reassembled by someone who did not know where the pieces went. And when his own face took shape out of the swirling shadows, Harry saw it flicker eerily, another image sliding in and out of focus with it. 

With a gasp, Harry pulled back and looked away. For he had seen, there in Draco's thoughts, his own face change into that of a Dementor, and suddenly, he was not so eager to find out what else might be floating in that bowl. 

He kept his eyes on Draco's face, after that, and he was heartened by what he saw. While Draco still looked blank and disconnected from reality, his face grew more and more peaceful, as though the removal of his thoughts was a relief to him. His body relaxed, no longer fighting the hex that bound him, his eyes began to drift closed, and his features softened. Harry bled a little more power into him, hoping to warm him a bit while he was so restful and vulnerable, and he saw something very close to a smile touch Draco's lips. He smiled back, fighting the urge to bend over and kiss him, to lend him more physical warmth than his power could give.

At last, Dumbledore straightened up and spread the handkerchief over the Pensieve. "That's all I dare take, but I think I've gone back to before the night of the Equinox."

"Now, what?" Harry asked.

"Now we remove the binding hex and make him comfortable."

"And then we go into his memories, to see what happened?"

Dumbledore nodded, eyes twinkling. "Then we go in."

They found Professors Moody and Snape waiting for them in Dumbledore's office. Moody had already explained to the Potions Master what they planned, and Snape was twitching with eagerness to get his hands on the Pensieve. When Dumbledore informed him that he would have to wait, that Harry was going into the Pensieve with Dumbledore this first time, Harry thought that Snape would burn him to a cinder with one look. But as always, he bowed to Dumbledore's wishes and agreed to stand watch with Moody while they were gone.

It seemed, to Harry's overstretched nerves, to take an age to set the locks and wards on the tower room. By the time Dumbledore drew him up to the desk and motioned for him to bend over the Pensieve, he was sweating with fear and almost dancing with impatience. Distractedly, as Dumbledore swirled the Pensieve between his hands, Harry wondered if this was how Snape felt and how, if it was, he could bear to just sit here and wait.

Images moved and shifted across the shining surface, dazzling and confusing Harry. He could tell, at a glance, that many of them were recent memories, fragmented and distorted by Draco's illness. But some were strong, clean images – the Gryffindor dormitory, Ron, Crabbe, the Quidditch pitch – taken from a healthy mind, and they gave Harry hope that the real Draco, the one who saw and remembered things so clearly, still lived somewhere inside that battered shell sleeping downstairs.

Finally, Dumbledore said, "This is it, I believe." He set down the Pensieve and stretched out a hand toward Harry. "Come, Harry."

Harry leaned over the bowl. The thick, white surface was now clear as glass, and Harry found himself looking down into a small, bare, gloomy room, with moisture seeping from its stone walls and sullen puddles collecting on the floor. A single torch burned somewhere outside his line of sight, but it shed enough light to show him the slight figure seated on the floor, drawn up into a protective huddle in the far corner. 

It took Harry less than a heartbeat to recognize him, and in that same instant, he reached out to touch the glassy surface. The world dissolved around him, and he was inside the Pensieve. Inside Draco's memory.

**_To be continued… _**


	7. The Family Crest

**Chapter 6: _The Family Crest_**

Harry found himself standing in one corner of the cell – it could be nothing else – staring at the huddled figure in the other corner. The room itself was a simple stone box, with a bench built into the wall opposite Harry's vantage point. To Harry's right, a row of iron bars that shimmered oddly in the dim, shifting light, divided the cell from a passage outside. There was no visible opening in the bars, no door that would let a person in or out, and nothing at all in the passage except a single torch flickering on the wall just outside the cell.

All in all, Harry could never remember seeing such a crushingly grim place. Even the torch seemed depressed by the atmosphere, as if afraid to shed too much light or heat. Harry could not feel anything in his insubstantial state, but he knew, without feeling it, that the cell was dank and deadly cold. The bare feet of the boy seated in the corner were marble-white, tinged with blue, the nails turning purple. When he lifted his head to rest it against the stone at his back, Harry saw that his face was as chill, white and lifeless as his feet.

Harry crossed the room and dropped to a crouch in front of him. Draco could not see him, he knew, but he could not help himself. "Look at you. You're freezing," he murmured.

"Harry." 

Harry started and turned to find Dumbledore standing in the corner where he had first arrived. The Headmaster looked reassuringly solid and normal, but his face was drawn with worry. "Where are we, Professor?" Harry demanded. 

"I don't know. I've never seen this place."

"Could we be under Malfoy Manor? In the old catacombs?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I've been in those passages – only once, but I remember them well. This is not like them. Not so ancient, I think, nor so extensive." He moved over to the bars and studied them, frowning. Then he stuck his head through the barrier and peered down the dark passage. "Hm."

Harry wanted to join him at the front of the cell and see what lay on the other side of the shimmering bars, but he couldn't bring himself to leave Draco. He could do nothing to help, but he felt compelled to stay close to him, as if, somehow, his presence could reach this ghost out of memory and give him comfort. Without rising to his feet, he twisted around and asked, "What is it?"

"We are underground; that much is certain. I can see a flight of stairs going up. And there seem to be a handful of other cells, but I'd guess that Draco didn't see much of his dungeon beyond this room. The image is blurred and indistinct."

Harry turned back to the seated boy, studying his familiar face closely. Draco looked sick and frightened, and something about the deadened look in his eyes told Harry that he had felt this way long enough to grow almost used to it. His mind was starting to go numb. 

He was dressed only in a white shirt and black trousers. His shoes, socks, Hogwarts robe and other bits and pieces of clothing were gone, leaving him looking very exposed without his usual elegant trappings. His hair was tied back with a ribbon, as always, but it had obviously been some days since he'd washed or combed it, and the silver-blond strands were stiff with dirt. More dirt smudged his face, darkened the nails of his right hand, and smeared his feet. He had been in this cold, damp, filthy room for quite a while, then, or in one very much like it, with no chance to wash off the grime of his imprisonment.

Harry put out a hand to touch him. Draco did not even flinch when Harry's hand passed right through his body and into the wall at his back. With a sign, Harry withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels. He was reassured to see that Draco's adamant hand was whole and unmarked, and that no magical burn scarred his cheek. But that meant they had come into his memory before these things had happened, and that they would have to watch them. This thought filled Harry with a mixture of curiosity and lurking dread.

"Someone is coming," Dumbledore said.

Draco must have heard footsteps against stone at that moment, because he stiffened, his face hardening, and scrambled to his feet. Harry instinctively pulled back, not wanting to have Draco pass through him, no matter how invisible or vaporous he might be. His backside landed hard on the floor, and he scuttled out of Draco's path, as the other boy took a step toward the bars.

Dumbledore moved over to Harry and held out a hand to pull him up. Harry was surprised to find that Dumbledore was solid, and when he clasped the old wizard's offered hand, he could feel the texture of his skin and the brush of his velvet sleeve. Dumbledore helped him up, then drew him back a step to give them both a wide view of the tiny room.

Lucius Malfoy stepped up to the bars and halted there, gazing coldly at his son. Draco stood stiffly in the middle of the floor, shoulders back, head tilted haughtily, hands hanging very still at his sides, his face a pale marble mask that hid everything but the aloof pride that was as much a part of his features as his grey eyes. Harry, who knew him so well, saw the fear and defiance in him, but Lucius clearly did not. His first words proved that Draco's act fooled him.

"I am pleased to see that you mean to face this like a Malfoy, even if you have forfeited all right to the name." Draco said nothing, and a look of regret crept slowly into Lucius' arctic eyes. "There are times, Draco, when you make me very proud."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Draco answered, his voice rough with disuse.

Lucius' mouth thinned. "And then there are times when I am ashamed to own you."

"Don't concern yourself, Father. It will be over soon, and you'll be done with me."

"That is what you think of me?" Lucius put out a hand to touch the bars, and Harry could have sworn he saw genuine hurt in the Death Eater's face. "That I could send my son to a traitor's end and think no more of it? I did my best for you, Draco. I fought for you." His long, white hand tightened around the bar, and the magical shimmer moved to enclose it. "But you left me no recourse, no argument that might save you. Now you will pay the price for your betrayal and bring us victory at the same time. In that, at least, I can take some comfort."

Draco's mask slipped just the tiniest bit, a flare of alarm showing in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You need to know nothing."

"Or maybe _you_ know nothing, and you're simply trying to frighten me."

Lucius shook his head. "How could you grow up in my house, see me every day of your life, and know so little of me?"

"I might ask the same question."

"I have never lied to you, Draco. Nor have I ever tried to intimidate, hurt or frighten you."

"You lied, every time you called me son."

"You are my son, much as it shames me to admit it when I see you like this. But you are, and you will be even after tonight."

"When I have brought your master victory?" Draco asked, his voice soft and cold. "When I'm dead, and you can conveniently forget what I really was? How generous of you, Father."

"I will never forget." Lucius paused, then added, in a voice like chill poison, "I will never forgive. But I do not lie, even to myself, and you are a part of me."

"Am I?" Draco set his jaw to hold in the force of his emotion. "Did you feel it, then, when the Dark Lord tried to crush my brain to bloody pulp? I felt it. Harry felt it. Did you? Did you even know what he was doing? Did you even _care?_"

Harry felt a terrible urge to go to Draco, to put his arms around him and tell him it wasn't worth the effort to talk to this horrible man, because the people who _really_ cared about him were waiting for him to come home. But Draco could not feel or hear him, and the only person in his dark, little world at this moment was Lucius. Dumbledore's hand gripped Harry's shoulder, steadying him, and he sucked in a deep breath to still the boiling frustration in him.

"Harry Potter." Lucius gripped the bars with both hands now, his eyes narrowed to evil slits and his lips drawn back in a snarl. "You dare to speak his name to me? You dare to ask me what I knew, what I felt, what I suffered, when you tied yourself to that filthy, fawning, mongrel _half-breed?_"

"Voldemort is a half-breed." Harry had never heard Draco use the Dark Lord's name before, and it gave him a start. "Just like Harry."

_No! Not just like me!_ Harry wanted to cry out. _I'm nothing like him, and I don't want you to be my Death Eater! It isn't like that… you know it isn't!_"

"So that's it," Lucius purred. "The pathetic little half-breed boy hopes to rival the Dark Lord, and you want to establish your place at his side. Well, you picked the wrong master to serve, my boy, and now you will pay for your lack of judgment."

"I don't serve Harry."

"What else would you call it?" When Draco said nothing, Lucius gave him a sour, hateful smile and said, "We all serve according to our lights. It's only too evident where your strengths lie."

The hurt and revulsion in Draco's face may have been hidden from his father, but Harry saw them all too clearly. "You know nothing about it," Draco said, flatly. "But how could you? The only thing that ever mattered to you was sucking up to Voldemort."

"You have no concept of what you mock so lightly. Do not dare to speak his name."

"Oh, you mean, like I'm not supposed to speak Harry's name?"

Lucius gave a hiss of rage and, in one fluid gesture, pulled the bars aside to leave a wide opening. He stepped through the gap and into the cell. The bars closed silently behind him. Draco did not back away from him, but his entire body stiffened and his hands clenched into fists against his thighs.

"Funny how you say you're not afraid of Harry, but you treat him just like you do your own master," Draco went on, recklessly. 

"I treat the Dark Lord with respect. I treat Potter with contempt. Only such a one as you would fail to see the difference."

"Such a what as me?"

Lucius eyed him for a long, burning minute, then hissed through his teeth, "Such a fool."

Incredibly, impossibly, Draco hung his head and Harry, who could not watch him falter before this hateful man, shouted angrily, "Don't listen to him! You know he's wrong!"

"Either you are fool enough to believe the lies fed to you by that foul old schemer, Dumbledore, and his pet martyr," Malfoy went on, his voice cold enough to freeze the puddles on the floor, "or you are fool enough to hope that Potter will defeat the Dark Lord in the end, usurp his place, and give you a position of trust or power in recompense. Which is it, Draco? Are you an idealistic fool or an ambitious one? Knowing you as I once did, I would assume the latter, but with Dumbledore's magic and Potter's stink about you, I barely recognize you now."

Draco lifted his head to look squarely at his father. "That's really the problem, isn't it, Father?" he said. "You're afraid I'll take your place as the number one flunky of the ruler of the wizarding world, without having to crawl to Voldemort to earn the title."

Now it was Lucius' turn to flinch under the lash of his son's tongue. He glared at Draco, so furious that Harry wondered he did not hit him, and snarled, "_Crawl?!_ You say I _crawl?!_ And what do you do for _your_ master, my proud boy? At least the Dark Lord has never asked _that_ of me!"

Draco stared at him, white-faced and tight-lipped, and whispered, "I believe you'd do it, if he asked. I do."

Lucius took a step toward him, his left hand drawing back. "How dare you speak so to me?"

"You've given him everything else."

"I do not prostitute myself for my master, or for any creature."

"Neither do I."

Lucius leaned forward until his face was only a few inches from Draco's, his hand still raised to strike. "You do, every time you let Potter touch you."

"You're forgetting one thing, Father. Harry isn't Voldemort. He may be a half-breed, an orphan, and an incredibly powerful wizard. He may even have it in him to rule the wizarding world, if he chose to do it. But he doesn't. He doesn't ask people to crawl or grovel or… serve him. That's what makes him Harry."

"Very touching," Malfoy sneered. "So you are an idealist, as well as a catamite."

Draco winced but did not back down. "I've been called worse."

"And you're so proud of yourself for standing up under the insults, aren't you? So proud of your status as Potter's Plaything."

That one struck Draco a physical blow, and he staggered back a step. His eyes widened, seeming only now to see the true depth of the fury and loathing in his father's face, and the last vestiges of color drained from his cheeks. Harry, unable to stop himself, took two hasty strides out of his corner. He needed to be closer to Draco, to make him hear, make him _feel_ his presence, if nothing else, but a look at the other boy's face brought him up short in horror.

Something inside Draco had broken. Harry could see it in his eyes. For the first time in his life, he saw Draco Malfoy utterly humiliated, and the sight was enough to wrench a cry of protest out of him. Whirling on Lucius, he shouted, uselessly, "I'll kill you for this! I swear I will, you bastard!"

"Calm down, Harry," Dumbledore said from just behind him. Warm hands clasped his shoulders, but he pulled away.

"He's listening to him," Harry choked out. "He's actually _believing_ it!"

"This happened days ago. You can't stop it. You can only watch, learn, and use what you see to help Draco when the time comes."

"It isn't true, Professor. None of it's true! I don't want to be Voldemort, and I would never do such a thing to Draco, even if I _did!_ You have to b…"

"Hush." Dumbledore's hands tightened around his upper arms, silencing him. "Listen."

Some noise from the far end of the passage had distracted Lucius Malfoy. He spun away from Draco, and with his going, the force that held his son upright vanished. Draco collapsed onto the bench like an unstrung puppet, wrapping his arms around his midriff and closing his eyes. He looked as though he were about to vomit or faint.

Lucius strode up to the magic bars and bent them easily aside. Then he stepped through to greet a pair of cloaked and hooded figures who hurried down the passage, dragging a third person between them. Their prisoner was wailing in a high-pitched, piercing voice that sent a chill of recognition down Harry's spine even before he got a glimpse of her face. Only one person he knew could make that hideous noise. 

"Pansy!" Draco cried, jumping to his feet as her captors dragged her into the light.

It was Pansy Parkinson. She looked disheveled and terrified, her black robe askew and her hair standing up in clumps. A wool muffler lay about her shoulders, having been pulled off her head, and her heavy boots left muddy footprints on the stone floor. She had obviously dressed for stealth in the darkness and just as obviously been caught in the act of doing something she shouldn't. 

At the sight of Draco standing behind the bars, she let out a whimper and reached toward him. Her eyes, usually so sharp and spiteful, were bewildered, drenched with tears, and pleading.

"Oh, Draco," she wailed, "I muffed it! I'm so _sorry!_"

"Shut her up," Lucius snapped, and one of the hooded men clapped a hand over Pansy's mouth.

"What are you doing to her?" Draco asked, angrily. Whatever his reaction to his father's verbal assault, he had managed to summon his usual arrogance in the presence of the others. "Leave her alone!"

Pansy fixed wild eyes on Draco's face, while tears coursed from between her clumped lashes to drip over the Death Eater's fingers.

"She was caught trying to counter the concealment spells and open the door," one of the Death Eaters said to Lucius. "Then she told a pack of clumsy lies about having permission to visit…" he jerked his chin toward Draco.

Lucius' lip curled disdainfully. "You're the Parkinson girl, aren't you?"

Pansy turned her terrified gaze on Lucius and nodded.

"What are you doing here? And remember that I know very well you did not have permission to visit my son." 

At Lucius' signal, the Death Eater took his hand from Pansy's mouth. She drew in a deep breath, ready to utter another shattering howl, but a single glance from Mr. Malfoy stifled it. Licking her lips, she ventured, in a squeaky whisper, "I wanted to see Draco. I heard he was down here, he was in trouble, and I wanted…" The steady glare fixed on her dried up the words in her throat, and she cast a pleading look at Draco. "I only wanted to help!"

Draco shook his head, a look of combined disbelief and exasperation on his face. "Pansy…"

"Help in what way?" Lucius asked. When Pansy did not answer him immediately, he took a threatening step toward her and dropped his voice to a malevolent purr. "Do not try to lie to me, Miss Parkinson, or it will go very hard with you. Tell me what help you thought to give my son."

Pansy drew away from him until she found herself pressed back against the Death Eater who held her on the right. Her pug-like face was twisted with fear and horror, her eyes starting from their sockets, and her breath coming in suffocating sobs. "To get him out," she whispered.

Draco gave a soft groan and let his head drop forward against the glowing bars. They did not bend for him as they had for Lucius, but neither did they hurt him. "God, Pansy, that was stupid."

"I heard my Mum talking to Mr. McNair. She said they were… they were going to kill you. It's not fair, Draco! It's not _right!_"

"What do you know about right, Miss Parkinson?" Lucius drawled, coldly. "You're an idiot schoolgirl with a crush on a boy who prostitutes himself for power. What chance does a silly chit like you stand against the Famous Harry Potter?"

"Stop it, Father! Don't talk to her that way!"

"Ah! The catamite learns chivalry!"

Pansy looked from one to the other, her mouth working in distress, then she blurted out, "It's not his fault! You know it isn't, Mr. Malfoy. Blaise told you! It's Dumbledore and Potter! Draco would never…"

Draco cut her off, sharply. "You don't know what you're talking about, Pansy."

"Oh, Draco!" she wailed miserably.

"Just go home and pretend you never heard anything. You can't help me, and you'll only get into trouble if you try."

"You are already in trouble," Lucius interjected, in a silky, dangerous tone, "and wise as my son's advice may be, it comes too late to save you."

"Father…"

"Take her outside. Put her with the others."

"Father!"

Lucius flicked his fingers toward the end of the passage, and the two Death Eaters began dragging Pansy away. She thrashed and screamed, shouting for Draco and for her parents, until Lucius called after them, "And silence that racket!"

One of her captors pulled the muffler from around her neck and stuffed it in her mouth. Then the threesome disappeared into the shadows. A moment later, Harry heard the dull thud of a door closing.

Draco heard the noise as well, and he flinched as if slapped. Turning away from the bars and his father's gaze, he walked over to the bench and stopped when his shins pressed against the stone edge. Harry could not see his face, but he could read sorrow and defeat in every line of his body.

"What are you going to do to her?" he asked the wall.

Lucius stepped once more into the cell but did not move any closer to his son than just inside the bars. "What we do to all traitors."

"How can you… how can you do that to someone you've known since she was born? She's a pureblood wizard, from a fine old family, everything you say you respect…"

"Do you know what this night symbolizes, Draco?" Malfoy sounded calm and relaxed, as if having an educational chat with his son over dinner.

Draco shook his head.

"It is the Vernal Equinox. The festival of renewal. Tonight, we usher in a new season of growth, of strength, of purity and purpose."

"Spring cleaning," Draco whispered, and his shoulders began to shake with silent, desperate laughter.

"Precisely. "

"But what will you do with our bodies, when you've let the Dementors have our souls? Won't that be rather messy? Awkward, even? Not really cleaning house, at all, with a bunch of zombies roaming around the place."

"You need only know that your… sacrifice will bring a swift and victorious end to this war."

Draco turned, very slowly, to face him, and Harry saw that he had abandoned all pretense at composure. His face was drawn with pain and, in the torchlight, his eyes glinted with tears he would not shed. When he spoke, Harry could hear the tears in his throat, as well. "Harry will come for you. Dumbledore will follow to protect him. You'll ambush them both and kill them. Or you'll try. That's the plan, isn't it, Father?"

"You were always a bright boy with a good head for strategy."

"I was a fool and a brute, and you made me that way. The only strategy I ever knew was to hit fast, hit hard, and kick my opponent when I had him down. And you were…" Draco's voice broke for a moment, and he paused to dredge up his last shreds of dignity before he finished, "proud of me."

"I was." To Harry's utter amazement, Lucius moved toward his son, one hand lifted in a pleading gesture. Draco shied away from him, but he could withdraw no further with the bench behind him. One pale, elegant hand came to rest against his cheek. "I am. I know you think me cold and stern, but you know that I have always done my best for you, taught you what I could, given you what I felt you needed, and loved you. Yes, Draco, I have loved you. I would love you again, if you gave me the chance. Only come back to me, trust me, and be my son again."

In a very small, very frightened voice, Draco asked, "Would it change what's going to happen tonight?"

Lucius stroked Draco's cheek with his thumb and shook his head sadly. "It would give us both something to be proud of, something to treasure, when we say goodbye."

Draco swallowed audibly and said, still in that odd, nearly soundless voice, "You won't save me."

"I cannot. The Dark Lord has made his plans, and there is no turning back from them."

"Then, no matter what I do or what I say, you'll turn me over to the Dementors, watch them suck out my soul, and use my empty body to bait a trap for Harry."

"Does my approval, my love, my pride in you mean nothing?"

Very slowly, very deliberately, as if he had to fight an Imperious Curse to do it, Draco shook his head. "No, Father. Nothing."

A spasm of pain or rage passed over Lucius' face, and he hissed, "Because you belong to _Potter_ now?"

"_I do not belong to anyone!_" 

Draco's furious shout cut the dank air of the cell like a blade, rocking his father back on his heels and making even Dumbledore start in surprise. Harry choked off a cry and sank his nails into his palms to stop himself from charging across the cell – to do what, he had no idea, he only knew that every fiber of his being ached to fling himself at Draco and Lucius.

"You delude yourself, boy," Lucius spat. 

His hand reached again for Draco, and this time, he sank his fingers in the long hair slipping loose from the ribbon at his neck and twisted viciously in the silvery strands. Draco's head was wrenched to one side, and his eyes blazed up into his father's. In that moment, their expressions were so much alike that Lucius might have been looking into a mirror instead of the face of his son.

"We _all serve_, if we crave power," he went on, harshly. "We _all belong_ to someone stronger than ourselves. I would have given you to a master worthy of your gifts, but you defied me. You chose your own kind of servitude. But you are a fool if you think Potter is any kind of master. He is already owned, already bound…"

"You lie!"

"I have never lied to you, Draco. You do not always choose to accept the truth, but I always give it to you. And now I tell you that Harry Potter belongs to my master. He wears the mark of it on his face, for all to see. His blood brought the Dark Lord to life again, and his life will put the Dark Lord back in power. When Potter dies, all will be right again."

"You're mad!" Draco gasped, his eyes filling with tears of pain, as his father's fingers wrenched at his hair and pulled his face up to catch the fitful torchlight.

"You thought that scar was a sign of strength? Of a special purpose or destiny? It's nothing but a brand, a mark of ownership. I suppose you could say that it signifies a special purpose, but not the one you dream of, my poor, besotted boy."

Draco ground his teeth together, forcing his words out past the treacherous sobs that gathered in his chest. "Harry will kill your master, and you with him!"

"One ugly little scar makes a hero out of a nothing, and my pathetic excuse for a son falls at his feet. It's disgusting and laughable." Tightening his grip for a moment, Lucius hurled Draco back and away from him, knocking him onto the bench. "Do you look at that scar and dream of greatness, while you're giving yourself to that Muggle-loving brat? Is that how you stand it, Draco? Is that how you face yourself when it's done? If that's all it is, I can make it so much easier for you! If all it takes is a scar…"

Lucius' left hand came up, clenched into a fist, and Harry saw the torchlight glance off the enormous emerald in his ring. 

"No!" Harry cried, starting toward them.

Dumbledore caught him by the arm and held him with surprising strength. "Just watch, Harry."

"I can't! I can't stand this… he'sgoing to…"

Lucius lashed out, striking Draco in the cheek with the back of his hand. There was an explosion of green sparks and a hiss of burning flesh. Draco uttered a tearing scream, his hands flying up to ward off the blow a fraction of a second too late. Lucius leaned forward, one knee on the bench, pushing the glowing gem against Draco's face and holding it there, in spite of the boy's struggles to escape him.

"Now you're mine, again," Lucius hissed. "Claimed and marked. And _he'll never have you again!_"

Harry threw himself across the cell, his hands out to grab Lucius Malfoy, shouting in wordless rage. His body passed completely through Lucius', and he stumbled, recovering himself. Before he could turn and attack again, something caught him in an iron grip and began to pull. He cried a protest, struggling against the pull, but he was flying upward through the icy darkness. Out of the Pensieve. Away from Draco.

With a jolt, he landed back in his own body, in Dumbledore's office. He had a bare moment to register the presence of other people all around him, then the shock and nausea that had not been able to reach him in his insubstantial state hit him with full force. He staggered back from the desk, gasping, and sat down hard on the floor. Dumbledore stooped over him, blue eyes grim behind their half-moon spectacles.

"It's all right, Harry. Take a deep breath."

"Dumbledore," Moody loomed over them both, glowering at the Headmaster with his normal eye and raking Harry with the magic one, "it's Black. He says it's urgent."

Dumbledore straightened up quickly. "Is that why you pulled us out?"

"Yes." 

Moody nodded toward the fireplace behind the desk, and Harry twisted around to see Sirius Black's head floating in it. He gaped at his godfather, too stunned and shaken by what had happened in the Pensieve to absorb what was happening in the real world. Dumbledore moved swiftly over to the fire and crouched in front of the disembodied head.

"What is it, Sirius?"

Had Harry been thinking more clearly, he would have noticed that Dumbledore had lost all of his usual jovial courtesy. He was all tightly-reined anger and brisk efficiency, without even a smile for Sirius.

"I've just spoken to Kingsley Shacklebolt," Sirius answered, in a manner every bit as clipped and intent as Dumbledore's. "He was called into the Ministry as part of a formal inquest. Fudge wanted him to inspect a body for traces of illegal magic."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "A body?"

"Lucius Malfoy." The room fell instantly quiet. "He's dead. Killed with the Avada Kedavra curse. Kingsley was certain of it."

Dumbledore digested that for a moment, then asked, "Who brought the body?"

"Narcissa. And Headmaster, she says that Draco did it."

Dumbledore did not move for nearly a minute, while everyone in the room held their breath. Then, without warning, he was on his feet and moving. "Thank you, Sirius," he said over his shoulder, as he crossed to where Harry sat. "Keep me informed of any developments. Harry, come with me."

Harry allowed Dumbledore to pull him to his feet. "Where are we going?"

"Back into the Pensieve."

"What about Draco?" Harry was disgusted to hear his voice shaking, but he couldn't control it. "What will happen to him? Will they take him to Azkaban?"

"Not if we can stop them." Dumbledore bent over the Pensieve, both hands grasping it, and shot Harry a look from beneath his lowered brows. "Can you do this, Harry? We have no time to spare. We must see this through and find out what really happened, or the Ministry of Magic will take Draco away from us and lock him up for the rest of his life. Do you understand?"

Harry swallowed the lingering sickness in his throat and nodded.

"Good. In you go." 

Obediently, Harry reached out to touch the glassy surface. He plunged once more into the cold and darkness, falling back into the nightmare.

**_To be continued…_**

****


	8. Lionheart

**Author's Note:**  This chapter completes the puzzle of what happened to Draco during those missing days. I tried to write it quickly, so you wouldn't all have to hang off that cliff for too long, and I tried very hard not to make it a cliff-hanger of its own. Unfortunately, since we're smack dab in the middle of the story, pretty much any ending is going to leave you dangling a bit. But hopefully this one won't be _too_ painful. :)

Thank you all for your comments and reviews! And to those of you who have e-mailed me and are waiting for a response, I apologize! I'll catch up on my e-mail now that I've finished the chapter.

Enjoy! – Claire

*** *** ***

**Chapter 7: _Lionheart_**

They were back in the cell. Harry could not tell how much time had passed, but Draco was alone, huddled on the floor in the corner, exactly as before. Only the angry burn and fresh blood on his face told Harry that they were in a new memory, a later one, and not right back where they had started. That, and the crushed, brutalized look in the back of his eyes.

The sound of approaching footsteps came almost immediately. Draco did not stand up, but he turned his wounded gaze on the passage. Lucius stepped into view, with two anonymous Death Eaters – both cloaked and hooded so closely that they might have been Dementors for all Harry could see of them – flanking him. He halted at the bars and bent them easily aside.

"Come," Lucius said, his voice utterly devoid of feeling. "It is time." 

Draco obediently climbed to his feet and crossed the cell to his father. He moved slowly and deliberately, with none of his usual feline grace, as if he had to think very hard about where he put his feet to be sure they were behaving properly. His father did not hurry him but stood in rigid silence, one hand against the nearest bar to keep them apart, until Draco stepped through the opening.

Lucius allowed the bars to close, then he pulled a black cord from his pocket and gestured for Draco to turn his back. Once again, Draco obeyed in silence. The resigned defeat in his face did not change as his father bound his hands behind him, and when Lucius gave him a firm shove to start him moving, his only acknowledgement was to drop his eyes to the ground in front of him. Still with that strange, deliberate gait, Draco started down the passage with his silent escort close about him. Harry and Dumbledore walked straight through the bars and fell in at the back of the procession. 

They passed the other cells and approached the stairs – a single, narrow flight of steps leading up into darkness. One of the Death Eaters went first, his wand in his hand. Draco followed him, with the other Death Eater holding his elbow and pushing him from behind. Lucius came last, pacing regally up from this squalid prison as though issuing from his throne room, his long cloak sweeping from his shoulders to flick through Harry's body as he climbed the steps behind him.

When he reached the top, the first wizard muttered a spell, and there was a flash of bluish light. A door swung slowly open. A patch of velvet sky, spangled with stars, appeared above them. Once again, they climbed upward, and suddenly Harry found himself stepping out of the ground and into a fever dream.

It was Stonehenge, as he had expected, but not the Stonehenge in the pictures at his Muggle school. This was a bewildering dance of looming shapes, eerie light and moving shadows, a circle of ancient stone that held magic and menace cupped within it like wandfire in a wizard's hand. And from inside that deadly place came the sound of a familiar voice – high, piercing, utterly evil – that sent rivers of ice coursing down Harry's spine. Voldemort. The Dark Lord was here to do his spring cleaning in person.

They approached from outside the circle, crossing the close-cropped, rain-soaked grass beneath a gorgeous midnight sky that seemed no part of the horrors that awaited them. Behind them, the door to the underground prison disappeared, hidden by concealing spells or vanishing back into the earth until some Druid summoned it again. As they drew near the outer ring of stones, Draco tilted his head back to look at the sky. Unconsciously, Harry did the same. 

The stars were enormous, burning so brightly that they hurt his eyes. They seemed close enough to touch, if he could only climb atop one of the standing stones and stretch out his hand, close enough to set the grass afire with a stray spark. Harry stared at them, amazed, then turned to Dumbledore and whispered,

"Look at the stars! Is it Voldemort's magic that makes them pulse and glow like that?"

Dumbledore shook his head, his face as hard as adamant in the strange, cold light. "It's Draco."

"What do you mean?"

"We are seeing what he saw, exactly as he saw it in his fear and, eventually, his madness."

Harry broke stride, his eyes lifting to the too-near stars again. He swallowed convulsively, then dropped his gaze and ran to catch up with Dumbledore as they passed beneath the shadow of a huge triptych. Draco was just ahead of him, and Harry saw him draw in on himself, retreating from the clutch of magic inside the great stones. 

The stars went out, lost behind the clinging darkness the Dementors breathed. The Giants' Dance rose threateningly on every side, growing taller with every step Draco took toward the inner ring. There was light ahead, but not the light of moon or stars, or even that of orange flame. It was a cold, unnatural light that seemed to bleach all color from the world around them, until the grass, the shrouded sky, the great stones, and the cloaked Death Eaters all bled together into a formless blackness. In the midst of this blackness, Draco passed like a ghost between the stones – pale, withdrawn, drained of all warmth and life.

Harry drew closer to Dumbledore, as though the old wizard could protect him from a memory, and whispered, hoarsely, "It wasn't like this the last time I was in the Pensieve."

"That is because you visited my memories, not those of a terrified boy going to meet his death."

Harry shuddered and said, doggedly, "He doesn't die."

"No, and I want you to hold onto that fact, Harry. You will need it."

Harry nodded wordlessly. They had stepped through the inner ring of stones and now found themselves in the heart of the Giants' Dance. Harry stared around him, struggling to make sense of what he saw, but Draco's vision was all confusion and gut-churning terror. 

They had entered a ragged horseshoe of stones, many of them fallen every which way and half hidden in the grass. Death Eaters stood like sentinels between the stones, all wrapped close in long cloaks, their faces hidden, holding balls of wandfire in their hands. Dementors – Harry assumed they were Dementors, because they had no wands and held no light – milled restlessly about at the open end of the horseshoe, as if all these healthy people in such close proximity filled them with a hunger they could not control.

Near the closed end of the horseshoe lay a huge stone. The ancient altar, Harry guessed, though how anyone could tell which was which in the chaos of fallen stones he did not know. Dementors stood at either end of the altar, while a third figure, taller and thinner than all the rest and seeming to radiate power though he was nothing but a towering shadow in the darkness, stood behind it. 

Harry did not need to see the creature's face to know who it was. He was suddenly intensely grateful that this was only a memory, even if it meant that he could do nothing to help Draco. He had seen Voldemort in his dreams, in visions, and in person. Now he saw him in memory, and in spite of the fact that he had no body to feel these reactions, he could swear that his stomach began to churn and his palms sweat with remembered fear.

No sooner had Draco and his escort stepped through the ring of Death Eaters and into the shivering light of the wandfire than Voldemort cried out, in his high, cold voice, "Bring the girl!"

He was answered by a piercing wail, and Harry jerked around to see Pansy Parkinson being dragged into the circle. She struggled futilely against the grip of her captors, feet skidding on the wet grass, and called to the silent watchers, "Let go of me! I didn't do anything! I didn't… _please!_" 

At the sound of her voice, Draco recoiled as though he'd been struck with a lash. "No!" he choked, turning to look at his father's rigid profile. "You can't!" Lucius gave no sign that he heard, continuing to stare intently at the scene by the altar.

"_Draco!_" 

Pansy had spotted his familiar bright head among the dark figures of the Death Eaters and now strained toward him, eyes wide and wild with terror. Draco turned to face her, his whole body tensed for battle or for flight, his hands knotted into fists so tight that his adamant fingers struck sparks from his palm. 

"What's happening?!" Pansy howled. "What are they going to…" At that moment, her eyes fell on Voldemort, and she uttered a long, agonized scream that seemed to make the very air shiver with horror. The Death Eaters flung her to her knees before the altar stone, and she huddled there, too stunned to move. At a signal from Voldemort, a Dementor glided forward from its place at the end of the altar. 

"_Stop it!_" Draco shouted, pulling against the hands that restrained him. "_Don't touch her!_" He managed to tear himself free for a moment and took a step toward the altar, but the Death Eaters grabbed him before he could take another. "Get your filthy hands off me!" he shouted, twisting in the Death Eaters' grasp and lashing out at them with his bare feet. "She didn't do anything! She didn't!"

Finally, Lucius moved, stepping up close to Draco and facing him squarely. Draco tried once more to throw off his captors' hands and cried out to his father in a desperate, pleading voice that set Harry's teeth on edge, "She was only trying to help me! You _know_ that!"

Calmly, deliberately, his face frozen with contempt and his eyes empty, Lucius drew back his hand and struck Draco a vicious blow across the cheek. His huge, emerald ring tore into the brand and sent fresh blood trickling down Draco's face. "Be silent and watch."

Draco turned his appalled gaze to Pansy, just in time to see the Dementor swoop down on her, its rotten, slimy hands reaching to clasp her face between them. He gave a low sob but did not try to break free again. Pansy stared up at the blank face with its ragged, sucking hole of a mouth, her own mouth falling slackly open and her eyes glazed. 

Nothing moved for a hideous moment, then Voldemort hissed, "Take her," and the Dementor lowered its mouth to Pansy's.

Suddenly, the world seemed to lurch and shift around Harry. He staggered, clutching at Dumbledore's sleeve for balance. The ground quickly steadied, and Harry found he could stand without support, but he kept a tight hold on Dumbledore anyway as he stared around him in amazement, trying to absorb what had happened. 

Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. The balls of wandfire were larger, heavier, their colors soured and their light weakened. The cloaked figures all about them wavered, as if they were no longer quite solid, and the standing stones leaned over the invaders in their midst with a tangible malice pouring from them. As the Dementor straightened up, letting Pansy fall limply to the grass, its outlines blurred and it left a strange, rainbow-hued afterimage that confused the eye. 

Harry drew in close to Dumbledore's side and whispered, hoarsely, "What was that?"

"His mind is beginning to fragment."

"Draco?" Harry turned appalled eyes on the other boy, standing still and rigid among his tormentors. "Oh, my God."

Harry took a step toward him, unable to help himself. He could not stand here and watch Draco disintegrate in front of him. He could not live inside Draco's growing madness and stay sane himself. He must do something… stop them somehow…

A hand clasped his shoulder, halting his steps and pulling him out of his dark reverie. He turned to find Dumbledore's eyes on him. They were kind and sad, full of understanding, and the sight of them closed Harry's throat up tight with tears. "Now is not the time, Harry."

"I can't watch this."

"Yes, you can. You must."

Harry shivered with fear, but Dumbledore's certainty steadied him. Dumbledore was right. This was not the time to help Draco. But that time would come, soon, and Harry would be there. He would know what to do, what to say, how to mend the terrible damage, because he would finally understand what had made Draco's wounds. That was his whole purpose for being here, and he could not falter in it. He must be stronger than memory – even such a memory as this.

"The time has come, my faithful ones!" Voldemort called, his voice ringing coldly among the ancient stones. "The hour of our victory is nearly upon us!"

He paused, waiting until a Death Eater had dragged Pansy's limp, unknowing body from before the altar, then he stepped up closer to the great slab of stone. Lifting a spidery hand, he thrust back his hood. A ripple of sound went through the ring of Death Eaters, and Harry felt a ghostly tingle in his scar. Back in Dumbledore's office, he knew, back in his own body, his scar was burning with a terrible pain. But here in the Pensieve, the pain was no more solid than he was himself.

One by one, the Death Eaters dropped to the ground to grovel before their master's face. Lucius pulled Draco to his knees, but Draco refused to bend his head. He stayed straight and defiant, looking so much like the archangel of his imaginings that Harry wondered he did not sprout wings and launch himself into the sky. The skull-like face of the Dark Lord, with it's slitted nostrils and glaring red eyes, turned to look at each huddled servant in turn, a smile lifting the corners of its lipless mouth. As the evil gaze swept over Harry, he flinched but did not back away. If Draco, who was actually here in the circle of stones with this monstrous creature, could hold his ground then Harry, who was only an intruder, unseen and bodiless, certainly could.

Voldemort's red eyes lingered on Draco for a moment, and the cruel smile widened. Draco kept his eyes down, and Harry could see sweat shining on his face in spite of the cold. Then Voldemort flicked a hand in an imperious gesture and called, "Rise! Rise, and witness the triumph of Lord Voldemort!"

The Death Eaters climbed to their feet again and retrieved their balls of wandfire. There was a new tension inside the ring of stones, an anticipation that hung visibly in the air and curled like vapor about the gathered wizards. Even the Dementors fell still, turned toward their master with something like eagerness. Draco remained kneeling with Lucius' hand on his shoulder, and Harry noticed that everything – the Death Eaters, Lucius, the stones – seemed taller than before. The light from the wandfire began to pulse faintly, as if in rhythm with Draco's heartbeat.

"It is here at last," Voldemort went on, a gloating smile on his terrible face, "the night of rebirth, the night of prophecy. We have rid ourselves of the rotten, the weak, the faithless, and now we will go forward into the final battle with the stars themselves heralding our victory!"

"What does he mean?" Harry breathed. Dumbledore shook his head without answering, eyes fixed on Voldemort.

The Dark Lord raised both his arms, holding his wand in one hand, and his body began to glow with a scintillating golden light. "The portents are clear. With the proper sacrifice, I will plunge the wizarding world into a battle it cannot win and finally claim what is rightfully mine! _Mine!_ And you chosen few who have remained faithful will have your just rewards. I, Lord Voldemort, greatest of all wizards, champion of the ancient ways and the ancient blood, who have challenged death and crushed it, will reward those who stand with me!" His burning gaze swept the ring again and came to rest on Draco. "And punish those who defy me."

Lowering his wand, he pointed it at the altar stone and hissed, "_Morsmordre!_"

A jet of green light shot out of the wand and splashed over the stone. As it died, Harry saw a familiar, hideous shape drawn on the altar in lines of golden light – the same shape he had once seen rising above the trees at the Quidditch World Cup and burned black on Wormtail's arm. A skull, with a serpent for a tongue. The Dark Mark.

Voldemort tucked the wand into his robe and turned his baleful gaze on Malfoy. "Lucius."

Malfoy reached down to grasp Draco's arm and pull him to his feet. Draco moved numbly, obedient to the pressure of his father's hand, stumbling now and then as he crossed the grass to the altar. When they reached the stone, Voldemort pointed to a spot in the middle of the glowing skull.

"Put him there."

Draco clambered onto the stone awkwardly, his hands still bound behind him and his body stiff with a deadly mixture of cold and fear. At Lucius' direction, he turned his back on Voldemort, facing outward toward the ring of Death Eaters and Dementors, and he sat back on his heels. His face was blank, white, and still, a death mask with dark wells of pain where his eyes should be. 

Harry knew Draco couldn't see him, but in that moment, he could have sworn that the other boy's eyes rested on  his face. "Don't be afraid, Draco," he whispered, too low for even Dumbledore to hear. "You can do this. You'll get away."

"This wretched boy thought to betray me!" Voldemort snarled, his voice like liquid venom on the air. "He betrayed his blood, his birthright, his father and me! But such is the power of the Dark Lord that he can turn even such a worm as this into a weapon! And such is my mercy that I will not kill him for his crimes." Voldemort laughed, and Harry shuddered at the sound. "I will even send him home to his chosen master."

With a sweep of his hand, Voldemort summoned the Dementor that stood to his left. The creature drifted slowly toward them, its face still concealed in its hood, and Lucius drew back to give it room. It halted slightly directly in front of Draco, its robe brushing the altar.

The ghost pain in Harry's scar flared afresh, and he sobbed aloud in rage and frustration. As badly as he wanted to turn his eyes away from Draco, he could not. He could only stare, horrified, as the Dementor pushed back its hood to expose its ghastly, featureless face. Draco also stared, but his eyes had a queer, blind look to them that sent a chill of recognition down Harry's back. He seemed mesmerized by the dreadful thing above him.

The Dementor lifted its hands again, this time to clasp Draco's head. It's fingers were foul and slimy against his face, leaving trails of filth on his bright hair, and as it tilted his head up, blood from the wound on his cheek ran over its hand. 

Voldemort spoke his final sentence with oozing satisfaction and cruel laughter in his voice. "Draco Malfoy, I condemn you as a traitor and sentence you to receive the Dementor's Kiss. Go into your living death with the certainty that you have served me well, in the end. And rest assured that you will be with Harry Potter very soon."

Those words seared through Draco like an Unforgivable Curse. His entire body stiffened, his spine going rigid and his head snapping backward to tear free of the Dementor's clasp. For a terrifying moment, Harry thought that he was having some kind of fit, but in the next breath he came alive again. One wrench of his adamant hand split the cord that bound him, and he threw up his hand in front of his face, screaming, "_No! Harry!_"

The Dementor hesitated, confused by the glittering thing that blocked him from his lawful prey, and Voldemort snarled, "Finish it! At once!"

Harry had the weird feeling that he had seen all of this before or, more accurately, lived it. He saw Draco recoil from the Dementor, his hand pressed to his mouth, and he knew what was coming next. He found himself clenching his fists and hissing, "Now! Do it _now!_" as Draco lunged to one side, away from the reaching hands, and flung out his hand to point an adamant finger at the Dementor.

"_Expecto patronum!_"

Silver mist erupted from the end of his finger. A magnificent beast took shape as its front paws struck the ground, and it bounded fearlessly toward the fleeing Dementor, shaking its mane as it ran. Harry stared at it, aghast, and somewhere inside, he began to weep. For Draco's patronus was a lion. A Gryffindor lion. And suddenly Harry knew where he had found the strength to summon it in the midst of his fear and growing madness.

Another terrified cry from Draco tore Harry's eyes away from the patronus, and he turned in time to see Voldemort grab Draco by the collar in one bone-white hand. Draco reacted instinctively, lashing out, not caring who it was that held him, and his adamant hand struck the Dark Lord full in the face. There was a burst of silver sparks, a howled curse from Voldemort, and the night exploded into chaos.

Shadows whirled in, shrieking like tortured spirits. The light shattered into a hundred colors where it struck stone, each shard pulsing with the quickening beat of Draco's heart. Black cloaks flapped like crows' wings, feet pounded against the grass, curses burned the air, and through it all the patronus raced, scattering Dementors and Death Eaters alike before it. Voldemort's voice rose above the din, but Harry could make out no words in its thin, piercing cry. 

"Where's Draco?!" Harry called to Dumbledore.

"There!"

Harry followed his pointing finger to where a slight figure in a torn white shirt was dodging through the fallen stones toward the outer ring. Harry took off running toward him, shouting uselessly as he went. He did not have to sidestep the obstacles in his path, but he found the whirl of darkness, light and noise disorienting and had trouble keeping track of Draco. He reached the other boy just as Draco stumbled over a stone hidden in the grass and went sprawling. 

Draco rolled onto his back and pushed himself up on his hands. Harry dropped to his knees beside him, shouting, "Get up! Oh God, Draco, _get up!_"

Draco's eyes widened in horror, and Harry twisted around to see a dense black shadow towering above them. Words came from it – low, furious, deadly words that froze Harry's blood and brought raw panic into Draco's face. "You cannot escape me, boy. You belong to me! You are _mine!_"

The face of Lucius Malfoy took shape out of the darkness. His eyes burned with a madness greater than anything that tortured his son, and his lips were drawn back in a feral snarl. "He will never have you again! _Never!_"

Draco stared at his father in blank terror for the space of a single breath, then his hand jerked up, all five fingers pointed at Lucius' face, and he screamed, "_Avada Kedavra!_"

A blast of green light hurled Draco back onto the grass and blinded Harry for a terrible moment. Draco did not wait for the discharge of power to die, but scrambled to his feet and began to run. He was sobbing so hard that it shook his entire body, and he could not keep his feet under him for more than three steps at a time, but he ran anyway, headed for the standing stones and the darkness beyond them. 

He passed the inner ring of stones, clutching at the nearest one for balance as he went, and made for the outer ring. Harry and Dumbledore followed, Harry pacing at his shoulder, urging him on with no thought for how foolish he looked shouting at a memory. Draco heard voices behind him, separating themselves from the chaos around the altar, and he put on a burst of speed, making for the complete blackness beneath the great triptychs. 

Suddenly, he stumbled and fell. Harry instinctively reached out to catch him, then swore as his hands passed through Draco's shoulder. He halted and turned to wait for the other boy to get to his feet again, but Draco did not move.

"Come on, Draco! There's no time for this!"

Draco did not hear him and did not seem to notice the voices drawing closer. He knelt in the grass, staring at something that lay huddled at the base of an upright stone. Harry dropped to his knees at Draco's side, peered into the thick shadows, and gasped.

"Pansy," Draco whispered, his voice thick with tears.

The slack, empty face of the girl in front of him did not change. Gently, incredibly gently, Draco reached up to take Pansy's face between his hands. The light of the stars, which now gleamed fitfully through the weakening shroud of the Dementors' gloom, struck brilliant sparks from the facets of Draco's hand and let Harry see it clearly for the first time. The two outer fingers were gone – blown off by the force of the Unforgivable Curse that had killed his father.

Harry stared first at the shattered hand and then at the tears streaking Draco's face, and he felt more helpless than he ever had in his life. As he watched, appalled, Draco leaned over to kiss Pansy's lips. "I'm sorry," he said, and Harry felt the chill of recognition go down his spine again. "I'm so sorry."

Draco's fingers tightened, the broken ends sinking into Pansy's flesh until blood showed black around them. His face contorted in agony. In another second, he would crush her throat and finish the job Voldemort had begun, and Harry could do precisely nothing to stop it.

A shout from the darkness to the right brought Draco's head around with a snap. He let go of Pansy, and she slumped to the ground.

"There he is!" a woman's voice shrilled triumphantly.

"Watch it, Bella," another voice said. "He's already killed Lucius."

"Go, Draco," Harry urged. "Run!"

But Draco did not run. He gazed down at Pansy's face, at the bloody wounds he had left in the side of her throat, and then he lifted his head to look at the stars. The tear streaks on his face were rivers of diamond-hued light. "I don't care what you say," he murmured. "I won't start a war for him. I won't lead Harry into a trap."

"Come along, little worm," the woman jeered, her boots crunching loudly on the brittle grass. "Come to your Auntie Bella."

Draco closed his eyes and bent his head again, covering his face with his hands. The woman gave a hard, ugly laugh, and Harry shouted in frustration, "_Do something!_"

There was a terrific lurch, and suddenly, everything was quiet.

Harry gasped, staring around him in confusion. They stood on close-cropped, wet grass, under a canopy of stars that sat too close to the earth. Stonehenge was gone. The Death Eaters were gone. The horrible, chaotic shrieking and crying were gone. There was absolutely nothing here but Draco Malfoy and the ghosts he had brought with him.

Draco still knelt with his head down and his face hidden. He was shaking, and though he made no sound, Harry knew that he was crying. Dumbledore and Harry exchanged a stunned look over the top of his head, then Dumbledore looked down at the weeping boy with blank wonder in his face.

"What happened?" Harry finally murmured, very softly, as though afraid that a loud noise might startle Draco.

"He apparated," Dumbledore answered, his voice full of awe.

"That's impossible. He doesn't know how and he didn't even… I mean, don't you need a spell?"

"I don't know how he did it, Harry, and you're right. It is impossible. Or it should be." Dumbledore knelt beside Draco, still peering intently at him. "How extraordinary!"

Harry followed Dumbledore's lead and sank to his knees on Draco's other side. "What about Pansy?" he asked, roughly. "Do you think he… hurt her?"

Dumbledore's eyes went cold. "Let's hope, for Pansy's sake, that he broke her neck. He could do her no greater favor."

His voice very small and frightened, Harry said, "I don't think Draco will see it that way."

Dumbledore lifted a hand as if to touch Draco's hair, then remembered that he was no more solid than Harry and pulled it back. "With any luck, he'll never know."

Before Harry could think of an answer to this, Draco stirred. He lifted his head, looking around him in blank disbelief then up at the strange, over-bright stars clustered so thickly above him. He clearly had no idea where he was or how he'd come here. Wrapping his arms tightly about his body, he took a few shaking breaths and whispered, "What did I do wrong, Harry?"

"Nothing!" Harry protested, then he caught Dumbledore's eye and shut his mouth with a snap.

Draco went on, in a quiet, desolate tone, "It doesn't work this way for you."

_But it does! It does!_ Harry cried silently. _People die, people suffer, and all because of me!_

"All I wanted was…" Draco broke off and swallowed painfully. His eyes, so dazed and abstracted that they didn't seem to see at all, drifted toward something in the middle distance. Something Harry could not see. And he slowly reached out with his left hand. "Harry?"

His adamant fingers, the blood on them showing black in the starlight, spread as if to catch hold of the mysterious something. In the same instant, a tremendous bang shook the ground beneath him, and a pair of blazing headlights came to a shuddering stop just a few feet from where he knelt. Draco did not even glance at them, but Harry instinctively threw himself out of their path.

A cheerful voice hailed Draco from behind the blinding glare of the headlights. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transportation for the stranded witch or wizard…  'Ey, Ern! Lookit wot we got 'ere!"

Help in the form of Stan Shunpike had arrived.

"Come, Harry." Dumbledore caught hold of Harry's arm. "It's time to go."

Harry did not struggle against the pull of Dumbledore's hand. He had seen enough, and more than enough, of Draco's memories and wanted to be safely back at Hogwarts, where Voldemort and the Dementors and Lucius Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson really were no more than memories. He caught a last glimpse of Stan bending over Draco, while Ernie leaned out the door to see what the fuss was about, then icy blackness closed about him and he was rushing up out of the Pensieve.

He landed back in his own body with a jolt. Dumbledore's office came into focus around him, and he stared numbly at the faces confronting him. Moody. Snape. McGonagall, though Harry was sure she had not been there before. Dumbledore, a hand on Harry's arm, eyes full of concern and understanding. Harry swallowed once, convulsively, and put a hand up to rub his scar, which was burning and tingling.

Moody grunted at him, then turned his mismatched eyes on Dumbledore. "Well? Did he do it?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"Oh, Albus!" McGonagall murmured.

"Then it's over," Snape growled, his face tight with a pain Harry understood all too well. "The Ministry will take him, and there's nothing we can do to stop them."

"It's far from over, Severus," Dumbledore answered, wearily, "and there is much we can do. But we must face the fact that Draco is guilty. He used an Unforgivable Curse to kill his father. That alone is enough to…"

Harry turned abruptly and headed for the door, unable to listen to them anymore and needing desperately to find Draco. Dumbledore called his name as he pulled the door open, but he ignored the Headmaster. He ignored everything and everyone, stalking silently through streams of chattering students headed for their second class of the afternoon, heedless of who he left standing in the halls, staring after him in confusion. He did not hear or see any of them.

In the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey was busy with three students and barely accorded him a glance over her shoulder. He vaguely heard Colin Creevey hail him, calling cheerfully to come and see the truly brilliant bite he'd gotten from a plant in Greenhouse Three, but he did not even glance at the other boy. He broke stride for a moment at the door to Draco's room, hesitating only long enough to glance through the magical window and see that Draco was alone. Then he muttered his password and slipped inside.

Draco lay curled on his side, deeply asleep, his face peaceful. Harry stared down at him, remembering what he had seen in the Pensieve and the incredible horrors that lurked behind that beautiful, archangel's face. Of its own volition, his hand lifted to touch the brand on Draco's cheek. 

The agony inside him swelled to fill his chest and throat, making him gasp for breath. He wanted to weep, to scream curses until his throat was raw, to find the people who had done this to Draco and torture them with the Cruciatus Curse until they begged for mercy, but none of it was possible. None of it would help, not even the tears. They had hurt Draco, and hurt him and hurt him… Voldemort had failed in his plans to draw them into a doomed battle, but he had succeeded in one thing. He had sent Draco back to Harry so lost and broken that Harry could not reach him, could not help him, could not even love him without causing him even more pain.

"There's nothing I can do," he whispered.

Then it came to him in a flash – the one thing he could do, the one thing he could _always_ do for Draco, that no one else could. Circling around the bed, he sat down on the mattress and kicked off his shoes. Then he climbed under the blanket and lay down close behind Draco. His body curved naturally to fit against the smaller boy's, protecting it, warming it, and his arm slipped around Draco's waist. He pressed his hand flat against Draco's chest, so he could feel it rise and fall gently as he breathed, then he burrowed his face into the snarl of silver-gilt hair strewn across the pillow and closed his eyes.

A stream of foolish endearments, pet names he never dared utter aloud and promises he could not keep went through his mind. He wanted to pour out all the sentimental drivel in his heart, while Draco could not hear him and would not understand if he did, but instead he whispered, simply,

"I'm here now, Draco. I'll keep you warm."

**_To be continued…_**


	9. Rude Awakening

**Author's Note: **A belated Happy Holidays to everyone! I hope you haven't completely given up on me! Here's the latest chapter – a nice long one to make up for my long absence.

On a technical note, I have expanded the boundaries of this story to include more elements of _Order of the Phoenix_, as you will see if you read on. This only made sense, considering where my plot was headed. I couldn't see pretending that Grimmauld Place doesn't exist or that Harry has never seen the inside of the Wizengamot dungeon, when we all know differently. I'm not going to attempt to weave all of OotP into this story, just the bits that fit nicely.

Thank you all for being so patient. Enjoy! -- Claire

***** *** *****

**Chapter 8: _Rude Awakening_**

The low hum of voices awakened Harry from a fitful doze. He pushed himself upright, gazing at the door and blinking in a muddled way, while his mind limped through the tatters of his comfortable dream to grasp his surroundings. The hospital wing. The Room of Requirement. Draco's bed. Draco lying beside him, still sleeping with that calm, untroubled expression on his face that made him look so young.

The voices grew louder. Harry recognized one of them as belonging to Professor McGonagall. She sounded angry, and Harry wondered what else had gone wrong while he slept. A moment later, the door flew open to reveal both McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey standing just outside. 

McGonagall was saying, "There's no time for that. I'll delay them all I can, but you'd best not waste any time."

"I'll handle it, Minerva." With that, Madam Pomfrey stepped into the room and shut the door in McGonagall's face. When she turned in Harry's direction, he saw that she wore a harassed frown. "Get out of that bed, Potter! On the double!"

"What's wrong?" Harry asked.

"_Out!_"

Harry obediently scrambled out of the bed, as Madam Pomfrey bustled over to him. She shoved a chair into the back of his knees, making him sit down with a plunk, then she twitched at his robes in a futile attempt to put them in some kind of order.

"Gracious, Potter, what have you done to your hair?"

"Slept on it," he retorted, his face flushing.

Madam Pomfrey whipped out her wand and pointed it at his head, but he ducked away, throwing his arms up to shield himself from her spell.

"I'll do it!" He raked his fingers through the disordered mop, surreptitiously straightening his glasses. "What's going on? Why do I have to comb my hair?"

"You can't look as though you've been curled up in bed with Malfoy."

"But I _have_ been curled up in b…"

"No lip from you, young man," she snapped. With quick, furious gestures, she pulled the blankets into place and smoothed them over the spot where Harry had lain a moment before. Her hand brushed at the pillow, erasing the imprint of his head. Then she bent over to peer closely at Malfoy. When she straightened up, Harry saw that her mouth was tight and her eyes shadowed.

"You still haven't told me what's going on," Harry said, very quietly.

"Narcissa Malfoy is here, with the Minster of Magic. She's come for her son."

"_No!_" Harry shot out of his chair as if the seat were spring-loaded. "You can't let her…"

"Sit down, foolish boy, and keep quiet!" She pressed him back into his chair, then clasped his shoulder for a moment longer than necessary. Harry thought he could feel her fingers trembling slightly. "Leave it to Dumbledore."

Harry subsided, but his face was white and strained, and the eyes he turned on Madam Pomfrey bled fear like tears. "She'll give him to Voldemort. You know she will."

Before the nurse could find an answer to this, they heard new voices approach the door. Bending close to Harry under the pretext of adjusting Draco's blanket, she hissed, "Not a word, Potter!"

Harry swallowed convulsively and knotted his fingers together in his lap, his teeth clenched so tightly together that his jaw ached. He watched the door open again and a whole cavalcade of witches and wizards trail into the room, while his mind raced, trying to decide how he ought to react if he'd really been sitting here innocently, watching Draco sleep for the past few hours. About the time Madam Pomfrey reached the new arrivals and demanded, sharply, to know why they were disturbing her patient, he reached the conclusion that it didn't matter whether he'd been sitting in a chair or lying in the bed. Either way, he'd be furious and frightened, and not one of these adults would expect him to be anything else.

Dumbledore led the group, with Professor Snape at his shoulder. Cornelius Fudge came next, escorting Narcissa Malfoy as if she were his favorite niece. His pudgy hand held her elbow with an avuncular familiarity that made Harry itch to hit him with a particularly vile and embarrassing hex. Behind Fudge were a pair of wizards in lime green robes, with the badge of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries on their chests. Professor McGonagall entered last and closed the door behind them all. Suddenly, the room was much too small, and Harry felt as though he were being pushed to the back of it, away from the bed and the boy lying in it.

None of them failed to notice Harry sitting at Draco's bedside, but only Dumbledore looked squarely at him. The Headmaster fixed him with a steady, approving gaze and smiled a welcome, while Narcissa stared over the top of his head in stony silence. Fudge cut a quick glance at him from the corners of his eyes, coughed, and looked away, but not before Harry caught the flash of distaste in his eyes. The two healers ignored him completely, all their attention fixed on Draco.

"As you can see, Cornelius, the boy is just where I said he would be. Sleeping," Dumbledore said.

Fudge waved to one of the anonymous healers and said, "Best wake him."

"Headmaster, I must protest…" Madam Pomfrey began, but Dumbledore cut her off with a raised hand.

"The Minister is here on official business, Poppy, and he has every right to do as he sees fit."

Fudge did not seem to hear the irony in his voice, but Narcissa did. In a tone cold enough to freeze the tips of Harry's fingers, she said, "The sooner my son is in the care of responsible healers and safely away from this castle, the better."

"Where are you taking him?" Harry demanded, unable to hold his tongue any longer.

Narcissa finally deigned to acknowledge his presence, turning eyes full of contempt on him, her face set in lines of rigid disgust. "That is not your concern. Dumbledore, I insist that you remove this student from my son's room, immediately."

"I'm not leaving," Harry said, truculently.

"Fudge?" she prompted, without bothering to look at the Minister. 

"Ah, yes. Well, Mr. Potter, I don't see any need for you to remain."

"I won't leave him alone with that woman," Harry retorted, glaring hard at Fudge until the Minister once more shifted his eyes away.

"She is Malfoy's mother and responsible for his care…" Fudge began, but Harry did not let him finish.

"Not anymore! Not since the siege! Dumbledore is responsible for him, now, because that's how Draco wanted it!"

Narcissa drew her lips back in a snarl, then she turned furiously on Fudge and demanded, "Why are you arguing with this insolent boy? Do your duty, Fudge, and stop wasting time!"

"Yes, indeed." Fudge carefully avoided the eyes of Harry and the Hogwarts teachers, as he turned to the healers again and said, with a sorry attempt at authority, "You will awaken the boy and place him in restraints, if necessary."

"I'll do it," Madam Pomfrey snapped, pushing her way past the others gathered close to the bed. "Step back, all of you."

Mrs. Malfoy looked as though she'd like to protest, but the St. Mungo's wizards and Fudge all obeyed without hesitation, and she decided not to press her point. She moved back, staying close to Fudge, as though afraid that contact with Dumbledore or Snape would soil her robes. Only Harry stood his ground, refusing to back away. Madam Pomfrey did not spare him so much as a glance, so he stayed right by the bed, watching intently as she bent over Draco.

"Time to wake up, Malfoy," she said, in her crisp way. She clasped his shoulder and shook it, gently. "Open your eyes. That's a good boy."

Draco stirred very slightly and, obedient to the pressure of Madam Pomfrey's hand on his shoulder, rolled onto his back. His eyes were open, but they had turned blank and unknowing again and did not focus on any of the faces around him. His face was utterly still, like a marble mask. 

"You have company," Madam Pomfrey said, still in that brisk way, and she grasped his arm to pull him upright. When Harry made a move to take his other arm, the nurse caught his eye and shook her head the tiniest bit. He let his hands drop to his sides again and watched as she coaxed Draco into a sitting position. 

At Fudge's imperious gesture, the healers moved forward again with their wands in their hands. But Madam Pomfrey stepped squarely in front of them, blocking their view of the boy in the bed. Taking Draco gently by the shoulders, she guided him to the edge of the mattress and drew him to his feet. He stood numbly at her side, head tilted at a slight angle and eyes staring blankly past the crowd of adult bodies at something none of them could see. Madam Pomfrey kept one arm about his shoulders and turned to face the intruders defiantly.

"Now say what you have to say, Minister, then let this poor child alone."

"Step away from him, Poppy. He must be properly restrained."

"I will not." Her glare reduced Fudge to spluttering embarrassment and held the green-clad healers at bay. "Restraints, indeed! I never heard anything so ridiculous!"

"This 'poor child,' as you term him, is accused of using an Unforgivable Curse to murder his own father. He cannot be allowed to walk free through the castle…"

"He's not under arrest, yet," Madam Pomfrey hissed, her grip on Draco's shoulder tightening, "and until he is, I'm still his nurse!"

Fudge sighed. "Very well." Turning to Draco, he said in his most pompous and condescending way, "Draco Malfoy, I arrest you on the charge of using an Unforgivable Curse to bring about the death of your father, Lucius Malfoy. Do you have anything to say, before I take you into custody?"

Draco did not move, did not even blink, and Fudge gave him an irritated look.

"Do you understand the charge made against you?"

"Of course he doesn't understand," Narcissa snapped. "His mind is gone! Look at him, Minister. Look at what Dumbledore and his minions have done to him!"

"Now, now, Narcissa…"

"I want him out of here!"

"Ah, not so fast, my dear Narcissa," Dumbledore interjected. "We have a few things to discuss, before you whisk Draco away from Hogwarts."

"We have nothing to discuss. _My son_ is under arrest and will certainly spend the rest of his life in a prison of some sort – either Azkaban or the Incurable ward of St. Mungo's – thanks to you. I should think you'd be very pleased with yourself and quite ready to let him go, now that he's served his purpose!"

"But curiously, I am not." Dumbledore had on his most benign expression, but his eyes were veiled and his smile fixed in a way that told Harry he was deeply angry. This was Dumbledore at his most dangerous. "As Harry so correctly pointed out, Draco is under my protection through his own choice, and while the Ministry of Magic may care nothing for the promise I made to my students, I care very much. I have no intention of breaking that promise now, simply because a distraught mother shows up at my door with a few bureaucrats in tow."

Fudge visibly swelled at this unflattering description of himself, his face turning an unattractive shade of purple. "You may think you are invulnerable, shut up here in your stronghold, but you are not, Dumbledore! You still answer to the Ministry of Magic, _and_ to the Governors of this school!"

"Certainly I do," Dumbledore said, still in that gentle, dangerous tone, "and I have no intention of defying either the Ministry or its duly appointed representatives. But neither do I intend to hand Draco over to his mother with no assurances of his safety or his… shall we say, impartial treatment under the law."

"What are you suggesting?" Fudge said, bristling.

"That emotions in the wizarding community are running high, and the temptation to sacrifice the son of a known Death Eater may be too great for some to withstand. Oh, not you, Cornelius! I have no doubts as to your integrity! But others, some with a great deal of influence in the Ministry, might not be so fair-minded and clear in their thinking."

"Malfoy will have his trial," Fudge said, stiffly, only slightly mollified by Dumbledore's words.

"Ah. And when will that be?"

"Tomorrow."

For the first time, Snape spoke, his voice dripping with scorn. "Awfully eager to have him shipped off to Azkaban, aren't you, Fudge?"

"The sooner this matter is resolved, the better for everyone. Including Mr. Malfoy."

"What time tomorrow?" Dumbledore asked.

Fudge went from blustering to shifty, all in the space of a breath. His eyes slid away from the Headmaster's, and he chuckled with a patently false assumption of ease. "Now, Albus, you resigned as head of the Wizengamot some months ago, don't you remember? This doesn't concern you."

"Not as a member of the Wizengamot, no. But as the person responsible for Draco's defense, it concerns me very much, indeed."

Everyone turned to look at Dumbledore – some in shock, some in grim amusement, and one at least in relief. Harry felt a wave of gratitude hit him so intense that it made the room spin dizzily about him for a moment.

"You're appearing for Malfoy?" Fudge demanded, his jovial manner slipping.

"I am. And so is Mr. Potter."

Now all the eyes were on Harry, making his stomach clench and his palms begin to sweat.

"What has Potter to do with this?"

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Did I misunderstand what Narcissa told us in my office? Is she not accusing Harry of entrapping Draco and turning his wits, driving him to commit murder in effect?"

Narcissa lifted her lip in a sneer. "You did not misunderstand."

"Why, then, Harry is intimately involved, wouldn't you say? And as one of the few people who knows what actually happened to Lucius Malfoy, I should think his presence would be welcome to the Wizengamot."

The look Fudge gave Harry would have curdled fresh milk. "Nine o'clock, in Courtroom Ten."

Dumbledore nodded understanding. "And Draco's safety?"

"What assurances do you expect from me?" Fudge had abandoned all pretense of good humor and now glared sourly at Dumbledore. "He goes to St. Mungo's under close guard."

"Where he will be examined by qualified healers, no doubt?"

"Of course."

"Healers with whom I will be allowed to confer?"

Fudge's eyes narrowed. "No one outside the St. Mungo's staff will be allowed to visit the prisoner."

"I did not ask to visit Mr. Malfoy, but to speak with his healers."

"Why?"

Dumbledore spread his hands in a gesture of complete openness. "I have been responsible for his care, up to now. I know details of his illness that no healer could glean from a single night's observation. And I have a promise to keep," he added, softly.

Fudge hesitated for a long, tense moment, then he nodded. "Ministry wizards will be present, as well."

"Certainly."

"Then we're agreed? I have your permission to do my duty?"

Dumbledore smiled at the rancor in his tone. "By all means."

Fudge waved brusquely to the St. Mungo's healers, and they stepped forward yet again. This time, at a glance from Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey backed away from the still, silent Malfoy. One of the healers took her place at his side and fastened a large hand around his upper arm. Draco shuddered slightly at the touch, seeming to come out of his trance. He looked around the many faces confronting him, bewildered.

"Come along without any fuss, Malfoy," Fudge said.

Draco gazed dully at him then looked away.

It wasn't until the healer began leading Draco toward the door that Harry realized it was over. Dumbledore was finished fighting, and Draco was leaving the castle with his mother. Horror flooded him, lending a frantic edge to his voice when he cried, "Stop! What are you doing?"

"Let him go, Harry," Dumbledore murmured quietly in his ear.

"No!" Harry looked wildly around at the watching adults, reading a combination of pity, regret, loathing and triumph in their faces. "You can't just take him away! He doesn't understand… he doesn't know what's happening!"

Narcissa Malfoy turned a contemptuous shoulder on him and said, coldly, "I will not stay here and listen to that creature's ravings. Come, Fudge."

The Minister threw an uneasy glance at Dumbledore, then nodded to the healers. Once again, they all moved toward the door.

"No, wait!" To his own disgust, Harry felt tears starting in his eyes. "He hasn't got any shoes on, or even a cloak. He'll freeze to death! He's always so cold…"

Giving Harry's shoulder a squeeze, Dumbledore lifted his wand and flicked it in Draco's direction. Fuzzy blue slippers appeared on his feet, and a long cloak settled around his shoulders from out of nowhere. For the first time, Draco reacted to his surroundings. At the touch of the cloak against his arms, he looked down at it curiously, then he caught a fold of its thick wool in his right hand and drew it around him. His eyes tracked emptily about the room until they found Harry's face. 

"Harry?" 

As if drawn by an invisible cord, Harry moved toward Draco. Narcissa stepped angrily forward to intercept him, but she found Severus Snape blocking her path. Harry halted in front of the smaller boy and gazed down into his confused, troubled face.

"Are we going somewhere?" Draco asked.

"You are." Harry lifted his hands to pull the cloak close about Draco's throat. "I'm not coming with you."

The trouble in Draco's eyes deepened into fear, and Harry could not stop himself from brushing his fingers against the other boy's cheek in a fruitless attempt at comfort. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, softly. "I promise." 

"I don't want…" Draco began, gazing steadily up at him with the closest thing to awareness Harry had seen in him since his return. Then his eyes went blank again and the moment was lost. 

Harry watched, helplessly, as the healer guided Draco to the door and paused for Dumbledore to open it with his password. As Draco stepped out of the room, one of his escort murmured something to him, and Harry heard him say, numbly, "The stars are gone."

Then the door closed behind them.

Harry sank down on the bed, his legs suddenly too weak to hold his weight, and began to shake. The Hogwarts teachers left in the room looked as stunned and lost as Harry felt, their faces blank and slightly sick, their eyes glazed. Snape took a few steps toward the door then stopped, unsure what to do. Behind him, McGonagall stared at Harry as though she expected him to take wing before her eyes, or burst spontaneously into flame. Madam Pomfrey picked up Draco's pillow and smoothed it mechanically, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. None of them said a word.

It was Harry who broke the long silence. He managed to get his shivering under control and stop his teeth from chattering, and as his mind started functioning again, he turned instinctively to Professor McGonagall for guidance.

"What do we do, now?" he asked her.

The three adults started at the sound of his voice, blinking as if awakened from a bad dream. Madam Pomfrey put the pillow down and sat on the edge of the bed next to him. Snape began to mutter under his breath and pace around the room. McGonagall answered Harry's question in her usual brusque way that so poorly concealed her worry.

"Wait for Dumbledore. He'll know how to handle this."

"How could he let them take Draco away like that?"

"He didn't have a choice. If he defies Fudge, he declares war on the Ministry of Magic – the duly appointed governing body of our world, Potter, not a renegade group of troublemakers. We can't isolate ourselves from the rest of Wizarding Britain just to protect one boy."

"I would," Harry said, bluntly.

"Then it is a very good thing you are not in a position to choose." McGonagall came perilously close to smiling. "You're a teenaged boy on hormone overload; you're entitled to think the world well lost for love. Dumbledore doesn't have that luxury."

Harry opened his mouth to deliver a hot rejoinder – all about how unfair and disrespectful it was to call the Hero of the Wizarding World a boy on hormone overload – but he was interrupted by Dumbledore's return. The Headmaster strode into the room, fairly crackling with energy, and began tossing off orders before the door had fully shut behind him.

"Severus, I have a number of owls to send that will need our strongest security charms on them. Please find Professor Flitwick and bring him to my office. I'll be there shortly. Minerva, I leave Hogwarts in your care until I return. We shouldn't be gone any longer than a day, I should think, but one must be prepared for all contingencies. Do your best to keep the rumors to a minimum. Granger and Weasley will need to be told where Harry has gone, but no one else. And Poppy, if you would put everything you can remember about Draco's condition down on parchment, I'll take it to his healers at St. Mungo's, along with his warmest cloak I think…"

Keen, kind blue eyes rested on Harry's face, and Harry felt his panic fade a little. Dumbledore would not abandon Draco. However dreadful the current situation seemed, Dumbledore must have a plan for getting them all out of it, or he would not look at Harry with so much understanding and confidence.

"Run down to the dungeon, Harry, and get some things together for Draco. Clean clothes, a Hogwarts robe, his winter cloak and scarf. He should look his best for the trial, and we don't want him to catch a chill."

Harry swallowed once, noisily, and nodded. He did not relish braving the Slytherin dungeon on such an errand, but he was not about to admit that to Dumbledore.

"Then pack a bag for yourself and come to my office, as quickly as you can."

"Can I tell Ron and Hermione what's happened?"

"I think you'd better leave that to Professor McGonagall. Off you go, now."

With another nod, Harry hurried from the room. He made straight for the Slytherin dungeon, turning over in his mind the various ways he might persuade Vincent Crabbe to help him, without disobeying Dumbledore's instructions to keep Draco's arrest quiet. In the end, he told Crabbe the truth, in spite of Dumbledore. After all, if Ron and Hermione deserved to know what was happening, then Crabbe certainly did.

The result was that Crabbe jammed a collection of clothing and personal effects into a leather satchel and handed it over to Harry with a growled demand that he look after Malfoy. He acted more annoyed than frightened by Malfoy's predicament, a fact which Harry found surprising.

As he dumped the contents of the satchel out on the floor of the dungeon passage and began to fold Draco's clothing properly, Harry threw a curious glance up at Crabbe and remarked, "You don't seem very worried."

"I'm not."

"Draco could end up in St. Mungo's for the rest of his life. Or worse."

"He won't. You'll bring him back."

Harry stared at him, his hands falling still. "You think I can do it?"

"I know you can." A gleam of amusement crept into Crabbe's eyes. "You're Perfect Bloody Potter. You always get what you want."

Harry was not at all sure Crabbe meant that as a compliment, but he held onto it anyway, using the Slytherin's certainty to bolster his flagging courage. And he found Crabbe's attitude much more comforting than Ron and Hermione's. They were in the Gryffindor common room when he climbed through the portrait hole, and one look at him told them that something was seriously wrong. They followed him up to the dormitory, sat on Ron's bed to watch him pack, and trailed after him when he came back downstairs, always with a tragic look in their eyes that made him long to run away. 

Hermione asked him once what was wrong, and he answered, simply, "Ask McGonagall." 

They must have heard the finality in his voice, just as they saw the pain in his face, because neither of them pressed him. And as he crossed the common room a second time, with Draco's satchel slung on his shoulder and a bundle of his own clothes tucked under his arm, his loyal friends cleared a path for him, deflecting the attention of his curious housemates so that no one interfered with his progress. Harry was grateful, but he was also intensely relieved when the portrait swung closed and hid their anxious, woebegone faces from him.

He ran all the way down to the second floor and arrived, panting, in front of the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. "_Canary cream_," he said, when he could catch his breath. The gargoyle leapt to one side, and Harry stepped onto the moving staircase.

He found Dumbledore alone in the tower room. The Headmaster was placing something in a huge, brass-bound trunk that hovered a few inches above the surface of his desk. He favored Harry with a smile and waved him over.

"You're ready to go? Excellent. I just have a few more things to pack…"

Harry wandered about the room, stopping to say hello to Fawkes, while Dumbledore conjured up various items and put them in the trunk. Then the old wizard shut the lid, waved his wand to lock it, and sent the trunk drifting toward the door. 

"I've arranged for the Knight Bus to meet us in front of the Three Broomsticks and five o'clock." Dumbledore glanced at a mysterious but fascinating collection of golden wires, gears and crystal tubes that sat, whirring, on a round table beneath one window, and he nodded in satisfaction. "We should be right on time."

Under other circumstances, Harry would have asked him how the contraption worked, but today he had other things on his mind. As the staircase carried them down to the second floor again, he turned to the Headmaster and asked, "Where are we going?"

"London. We'll stay the night with Sirius."

"In Grimmauld Place?" Harry's voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying his nervousness.

"Of course. It's conveniently close to the Ministry and quite safe from Voldemort's agents."

"Oh." Harry's stomach sank another inch, and he stared glumly at the walls sliding by them, choosing to keep quiet rather than tell Dumbledore what he thought of this plan and risk being left behind.

*** *** ***

Dumbledore must have slipped Ernie Prang an extra Sickle or two, because the Knight Bus took them from Hogsmeade to London with only one short stop in between to pick up a ragged old witch who smelled of onions. The other passengers gave them rather dirty looks, as the triple-decker bus banged to a halt at the curb of Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore ushered Harry up to the door of the bus, waving a cheerful farewell to the old witch as they went past, then he lifted his wand and murmured a spell.

Suddenly, Harry found himself standing next to a small, plump, middle-aged businessman who bore a suspicious resemblance to Cornelius Fudge. He wore a pinstripe suit and a bowler hat, and he pulled a bulky suitcase behind him on little wheels. Harry did not dare to look at himself, not wanting to know what disguise Dumbledore had inflicted upon him. 

"Quickly, now, Harry."

Harry tucked his bundle of clothing beneath his arm and clambered down the steps of the Knight Bus to the sidewalk. Dumbledore followed, somehow managing to keep his suitcase upright as he did so, then he led the way across the pavement to the steps that had appeared just in front of them. As they climbed the front steps, Number 12 squeezed into view between the houses to either side. Harry cast it a dubious glance, then ducked his head and went through the door ahead of Dumbledore.

Harry hated this house. He had hated it from the first moment he set foot in it, nearly two years ago, and his feeling of loathing had not diminished with time. It was filthy, cold, more than a little perilous for the unwary, and thoroughly depressing. Sirius had made steady progress in cleaning and refurbishing the interior, but a certain gloominess could not be scrubbed out of it, nor could the most industrious housekeeper remove the feeling of brooding malice that lingered in the very walls. In his present state of mind, gloom, malice and depression were the last things Harry needed.

He hesitated in the entryway, hanging back, until Dumbledore gave him a slight shove to get him moving. They had both resumed their normal appearance, the obscuring spell dissipating the moment they stepped into the house, and Harry had to shuffle sideways to avoid tripping over Dumbledore's enormous trunk.

"You'll use the same bedroom as the last time," Dumbledore whispered, in an attempt not to awaken the portrait of Mrs. Black. "Do you remember where it is?"

Harry nodded, glumly, wishing that he did not remember.

"Go on, then. I'll tell Sirius that we've arrived, then I must go out again."

"Where?"

"St. Mungo's and the Ministry of Magic. I have much to do before the trial tomorrow."

"Can't I go with you?"

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I think that would be a mistake."

"But Draco…"

"You won't be allowed to see him. Neither will I, but he is in good hands, I assure you. Narcissa can't reach him on the closed ward." Dumbledore took the satchel full of Draco's clothing from Harry's shoulder, smiled kindly at him, and waved a hand toward the staircase. "Get yourself settled, then come down to the kitchen. It's nearly supper time."

With another glum nod, Harry plodded up the stairs toward the second floor and the bedroom he had once shared with Ron. It, like the entry hall, had undergone some noticeable improvements. The walls were clean and the corners free of cobwebs. The beds were decked with flowered counterpanes that looked startlingly out of place in the otherwise gloomy interior, and matching curtains covered the single, narrow window. Much to Harry's disgust, the portrait of Phineas Nigellus that hung above the beds was awake and smiling in an oily way when he walked in.

"Well, well," the portrait said, rubbing its long hands together, "the Prodigal Potter returns and poor old Phineas is called out of retirement to look after him. Again."

"Bugger off," Harry mumbled. Moving over to the nearest bed, he dropped his bundle of clothes and sat down on the edge of the mattress. 

What did Dumbledore mean by "get settled"? Did he expect them to spend more than a night here? Did he think Harry was going to hang up his robes and make himself at home? Did he imagine, in the dim recesses of his brain, that Harry would bring Draco back to this dreadful old barrack of a house, once they had freed him? The sharp eyes of the portrait seemed to bore into Harry's skull, and he turned to glare at the still-smiling Nigellus.

"What are you looking at?" he demanded, knowing that it was foolish to pick a fight with a painting, even as he said it, but unable to resist the challenge in those mocking eyes.

Nigellus struck an elaborate pose. "Why, the Hero of the Wizarding World, of course!"

"Well, stop it. Go to sleep, or take yourself off to some other portrait and leave me alone."

"Can't do that. Headmaster's orders." The cold eyes glinted nastily at him. "And I am honor-bound to serve the present Headmaster, whatever my personal feelings in the matter."

Harry was left in no doubt as to what Phineas' personal feelings were, and he was in no mood to tolerate them. "I don't care what Dumbledore told you; _I'm_ telling you that I don't need you lurking around, so bugger off!"

"That's a fine way to talk," Phineas said, his voice silky with malice. "I'd have thought you'd learn some manners from your Slytherin…" A furious glare from Harry made him pause, then he smiled widely and finished, "…Sweetheart."

"Don't you say a word about Draco, you moldy old piece of canvas!"

"And here I was about to pay you a compliment on your taste." He sighed dramatically. "Gryffindors are always so crude and ungrateful. One wonders what a Slytherin boy of good family sees in an ill-mannered brute like you."

Harry gave a reluctant laugh, and Nigellus scowled at him. Clearly, the portrait had meant to goad him into fury with his insults, but Harry had swallowed far worse from people whose opinions meant far more to him. Phineas' barbs had little power to wound him.

"So Precious Potter has a sense of humor," Phineas drawled. "About himself, anyway."

"You know," Harry remarked, "you remind me a lot of Professor Snape."

Phineas preened slightly, the oily smile spreading over his face again. "We Slytherins all have a certain air about us…"

"Don't you mean a certain smell?"

The smile twisted into a sneer. "You should know. You snuggle up to one every night."

Harry bounded up off the bed and took a threatening step toward the portrait. "I told you to leave Draco out of this."

"I'd say it's a bit late for that. Malfoy is right smack in the middle of things, thanks to you. That is why you're here, isn't it? To save the love of your life from the clutches of the Enemy? Precious Potter to the rescue?"

Harry ground his teeth together, feeling the frustration and rage that were never very far from the surface come bubbling up in him, fresh and hot. "One more word, and I'll…"

"What, you don't like Precious Potter? How about Potty Potter, or Potter the Poofter, or the Boy who Bugg…"

Harry's shoe struck Phineas square in the face, bringing a shout of pain from him and making him duck out of the frame. Harry stalked over to the wall. The portrait was a very large one in an ornate frame, but it was hung on the wall with a simple hook, and Harry lifted it down easily. Dropping it onto the floor with a thunk, he turned it around and propped it against the wall. 

Phineas gave an undignified shriek and cried, furiously, "Put me back, you insufferable brat!"

"Sod off!"

"How dare you speak to me that way?! Me, a former Headmaster, pure-blood scion of the Noble House of Black…"

"Foul-mouthed old villain."

"Hang this picture up where it belongs, Potter, or you'll find out just what a moldy old piece of canvas can do to an uppity little half-breed who doesn't know his place!"

"Precisely nothing," Harry said, feeling a smug satisfaction fill him. After months of reining in his temper, while his classmates whispered, sneered and giggled behind their hands, he could not help reveling in this small victory. True, it was only a portrait, but it still felt good to put _someone_ in his place. To shut just one mouth. To be revenged for just one insult. He felt the knot of anxiety, depression and fear inside him loosen a trifle, and he smiled at the tattered back of the portrait.

"Enjoy the view, Headmaster."

Then he turned and strode out of the room, headed for the kitchen and his supper. He bounded down the stairs two at a time, suddenly eager to find Sirius. He had not spent time with his godfather since the lifting of the siege, more than three months ago, and then his emotional state had made real conversation impossible. Sirius' brief intrusions into his life since then had been of little help to him at a time when Harry needed the support of an adult he trusted.

He heard the clatter of dishes coming from the basement and quickened his pace. "Sirius! I took down that blasted painting…" 

A plump, motherly figure, who bore no resemblance whatsoever to Sirius Black, turned away from he hearth to greet him. Harry came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, utterly taken aback to find her here. 

She gave him a rather fixed, glassy smile and said, "Hello, Harry dear."

He pulled his jaw shut and said, uneasily, "Hallo, Mrs. Weasley."

She strode briskly over to the table and slapped down the platter she held. The smell that rose from it was enticing, but Harry was afraid to approach Mrs. Weasley too closely. Something about her expression made his stomach sink, and he knew a momentary impulse to turn and bolt up the stairs again.

"Found your room all right, I hope? I tried to make it more comfortable for you – chased the pixies out of the wardrobe and hung up some clean curtains. There's nothing to be done about the wallpaper, of course, but at least the pests are gone."

"Uhm," was all Harry could think to say.

"Don't stand there gawping, dear. Sit down. I'll have your supper ready in a tick."

Harry stepped into the room, keeping a wary eye on Mrs. Weasley as he crossed to the table. She looked as though it hurt to hold her smile in place, and for all her cheery talk, she would not meet his eyes. Harry felt the tangle of nerves in his stomach twist even tighter, and suddenly, the platter of chops on the table did not smell nearly so appetizing. He slid into the nearest chair.

"I, umm, wasn't expecting to find you here," Harry offered, by way of making conversation.

"Dumbledore owled me, said you were coming down to London for the night, and asked that I look after you. Sirius means well, but he's a dreadful cook and his housekeeping is a disgrace."

"Oh." She continued to bustle about the hearth, avoiding his gaze, and Harry sighed inwardly. The last thing he wanted right now was a confrontation with Mrs. Weasley, but he couldn't sit here and pretend that everything was all right when she wouldn't even look at him. Finally, he could take the charged silence no longer, and he cleared his throat. Her head came up sharply, but she did not turn around.

"Are you angry with me, Mrs. Weasley?"

"Don't be silly."

He stared glumly at her rigid back. "Disappointed, then."

"Not in you, Harry." She hesitated for a moment, then suddenly slammed a large bowl down on the counter and snapped, in a voice that sounded much more like her own, "But I could wring Dumbledore's neck for this!"

"Professor Dumbledore hasn't done anything…"

"Hasn't he?" She turned suddenly to face him, her eyes bright with angry tears. "This entire disgusting mess is of his making, and if he cared for you one tenth as much as he claims, he'd never have gotten you involved!"

"You mean Draco, don't you?"

The look on Mrs. Weasley's face made Harry feel sick. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, then said, with deadly calm, "I promised Albus I wouldn't discuss Malfoy with you."

"Then you might as well not talk to me at all!" Harry retorted, feeling his face heat. He dropped his gaze to the table top and glared furiously at his clenched fists, afraid to risk another look at Mrs. Weasley's expression and not at all sure that he could master his own. 

She did not move or speak for a long, burning minute, then she stepped up to the table and pulled out a chair. As she settled into it and reached out one hand to clasp Harry's where it lay on the table, she gave a tired sigh. "Why are we arguing about this?"

"Why do you look like you swallowed a dung bomb when I say Draco's name?"

"Albus wants me to keep my opinions on that subject to myself."

Harry lifted troubled eyes to her face and asked, seriously, "Do you really think all of this is Dumbledore's fault?"

"I know it is."

"He didn't make me fall in love with Draco." That dreadful look swept over her face again, and Harry turned away, blinking back angry tears. "Professor Dumbledore is only trying to help."

"How? By parading you in front of that flock of harpies at the Wizengamot? You can do without that kind of help. If he had a grain of sense, he'd pack you off to Hogwarts, where no one can touch you, and let them have that Malfoy creature as…"

Harry tore his hand out of hers and sprang to his feet, rage churning like acid in his stomach and blazing through the fresh tears in his eyes. He turned for the door, intent only on escaping before he said something unforgivable to Mrs. Weasley, something he could never take back, but the sight of Sirius leaning against the doorjamb brought him up short in surprise. 

Sirius met his gaze for a moment, then flicked a dark glance at Mrs. Weasley and said, "That's enough, Molly. Dumbledore warned you."

Mrs. Weasley pressed her lips tightly together and made a sour noise in her throat.

Sirius pushed himself away from the wall and loped across the room to collapse into a chair. "Harry, what is that racket coming from your bedroom?" he asked. "I can hear it two flights up, and it's making Buckbeak nervous."

"Oh. The portrait." Harry hesitated for a moment, then drifted a little closer to the table and his godfather's sheltering presence.

"What portrait?"

"The one of Phineas Nigellus. I took him down and turned him to face the wall. He was being incredibly rude, and I… well, I decided I wasn't going to take that from a painting, so I…"

"That portrait is there for your protection, Harry," Mrs. Weasley scolded. "Dumbledore specifically told me to put you in that room, so Phineas could keep an eye on you."

Harry set his jaw stubbornly and glared at the floor, refusing to look at her. She gave a snort of disgust, pushed herself to her feet, and began stomping back and forth from the counter to the table, carrying food and cutlery. Sirius glanced from one to the other of them, a glint of unholy amusement in his eyes, and said, genially, "Molly's right."

"He's horrid!" Harry blurted out. "You wouldn't believe the things he called me!"

"Oh, wouldn't we?" 

Harry flushed at the ironic note in Sirius' voice and muttered, defiantly, "I hit him in the face with my shoe."

"Good for you."

"Sirius!" Mrs. Weasley protested.

Sirius chuckled. "I often wish I could cut the whole lot of them to ribbons. My dear family, preserved on canvas for the torment of later generations."

"He called me an uppity half-breed who doesn't know his place. And that was the _polite_ part!"

"Potter the Poofter?" Sirius murmured, softly.

Harry flushed even more furiously, but he mustered an awkward laugh. "I interrupted him in the middle of the worst one."

"I think we can all do without the litany of insults," Mrs. Weasley said, acidly, as she slapped a bowl of potatoes down in front of Sirius. "We hear them often enough as it is."

Sirius, who had been piling food onto two plates as he spoke, now shoved one of them toward Harry's place at the table and said, "Sit down, Harry. Have a chop and forget about old Phineas."

When Harry still hesitated, Mrs. Weasley snapped, "Oh, do sit down. I won't bite." Then she added, stiffly, "And I won't say another word about that… friend of yours."

Harry edged into his chair, one eye fixed warily on Mrs. Weasley, and picked up a fork. No one spoke for a long, uncomfortable minute, while Mrs. Weasley brought the last few dishes over to the table and took her own seat. Then Harry said, very quietly, his eyes on his plate and his fork picking aimlessly at the food on it,

"Draco isn't so bad, when you get to know him." Mrs. Weasley gave a snort of disgust, which she swallowed at a sharp look from Sirius. "You only hate him because his name is Malfoy, but that's not his fault."

"The way he's treated my family is very much his fault," she retorted.

Harry took another stab at the defenseless meat on his plate and said, with suppressed savagery, "People grow up! Even _Malfoys!_ And maybe he would be nicer to Ron, if _Ron_ grew up a little!"

"True enough," Sirius said, earning him another glare from Mrs. Weasley. He raised an ironic eyebrow at her. "Fair's fair, Molly. You can't expect Malfoy to sit meekly by while your boys pelt him with insults. Or worse. He is a Black, after all, and we're not known for our meekness."

"I'm a Black, too, somewhere high up the family tree. Does that give me the right to be a bigoted, hateful little viper?" she demanded.

Sirius laughed, harshly. "Depends on who you ask. My mother, now…"

Harry abruptly pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "I'm not hungry." Ignoring Mrs. Weasley's anxious look and Sirius' call to wait, he turned and ran up the stairs, two at a time.

He couldn't take the stifling air of the kitchen any longer, but neither did he want to brave his bedroom again, where Phineas Nigellus was no doubt waiting to ambush him. He needed a quiet place to think, with no one badgering him or abusing him, where he could collect himself. Not knowing where else to go in this rotting, filthy old house, he headed for the first floor and the drawing room.

The room bore little resemblance to the dingy nest of magical mischief-makers that he remembered. None of the furniture rattled, groaned, or shifted ominously on its legs. The windows were sparkling clean, the curtains washed and pressed (and blessedly free of doxies), and the glass-fronted cabinets full of Quidditch memorabilia instead of sinister magical objects. Even the great tapestry that covered the opposite wall, depicting the Black Family Tree, had been ruthlessly cleaned.

Harry moved slowly up to the tapestry, gazing intently at it. Of course, all the names that meant anything to him had been burned away by Sirius' mad mother. All but one. His eyes drifted down to the last row of names, the last generation of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He knelt on the worn carpet and reached out to touch the thin gold thread that tied the one remaining name, the one traitor to the pureblood cause who had not been burned from the family tree and family memory, to his parents. Draco Malfoy.

If Mrs. Black were still alive, what would she do to this name? Harry wondered. What curses would she heap on Draco's silver-blond head? What terrible revenge would she take for his act of betrayal? Harry felt a gnawing desire to pull out his wand and burn Draco's name from the tapestry himself, cutting that golden thread and all that it stood for, setting him free. Draco did not belong to them anymore. He did not belong among that collection of murderers and madmen. 

Footsteps sounded on the carpet behind him, and Harry turned to find Sirius standing at his back. 

Black's dark, haunted eyes scanned down the tracery of names and connecting lines 'til he found Draco. "We're first cousins, once removed."

"I know."

"I used to be grateful for the 'removed' bit."

"The first time I saw this tapestry and realized you and Draco were related, I wanted to be sick."

Sirius shot him a narrow, considering look. "Why's that?"

"I hated him for horning in on yet another part of my life. It was bad enough that I couldn't get away from him at school, but then he showed up right here, in your home, as part of your family – something I could never be."

"You don't want to be a part of my family, Harry, trust me. I'd rather have you as a godson, knowing you don't have any of the precious Black blood in your veins. We're a bad lot."

Harry shook his head, a half-smile pulling at his mouth. "Some of my favorite people are Blacks."

Sirius' face darkened, and he snapped, "Don't make light of this!"

Harry turned to gaze squarely at him, and Sirius dropped to a crouch, bringing their heads almost on a level. He was clearly upset, more so than usual, and Harry felt a creeping cold go through him. Sirius was about to warn him off of Draco, to lecture him on the dangers of associating with Malfoys, to browbeat him with horror stories and dire predictions. Sirius, the one person Harry had counted on to stand by him, was about to shatter his last hopeful illusion.

"You think you know people, Harry, but you're still a child in many ways. You can't know what kind of darkness lives inside a man… or a woman. I've seen it, so I know."

"So have I," Harry interjected, quietly.

Sirius blinked at him, taken aback, then nodded slowly. "I suppose you have."

"Sirius, I really don't think I can take this right now. This has been a ruddy awful day. I'm tired and I'm scared. And honestly, you don't know Draco like I do."

He blinked again. "I should think that was self-evident."

"Then don't you think you can trust my judgment about him?"

"I'm not questioning your judgment where Malfoy is concerned. I'm trying to prepare you for his mother."

Now it was Harry's turn to blink in surprise. "Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Narcissa Black Malfoy. Daughter of a pureblood snob, married to a pureblood villain, bound by her own beliefs and her husband's oaths to the Dark Lord." His eyes bored remorselessly into Harry, as he said, his voice hard with bitterness, "Don't trust her, Harry. Don't believe one word that comes out of her mouth. She may be Draco's mother, she may even love him, but that won't matter a damn when she has to choose between him and Voldemort. I'm telling you that we Blacks are a bad lot and none are worse than the cold, pure, virtuous ones who stand up in front of honest people and _lie_."

Harry thought of his encounter with Mrs. Malfoy earlier that day and felt a fresh spurt of anger. "Do you think I'd ever trust that horrible woman? She just had her own son arrested for murder!"

Sirius gave him an ironic look and said, "A murder which he did commit."

Harry returned the look without flinching. "What do you want me to say? That I blame him for killing his father? That I hate him? That I'm afraid he'll try to kill me?"

"He did that, too."

A tremor of rage went through Harry's body, and he clenched his fists against his thighs. "He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't mean to hurt me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! I was there; you weren't! I saw what happened in the Pensieve! I _know_ that Draco would never deliberately hurt me!"

"All right. You don't have to convince me, you know, only yourself. And the Wizengamot."

"I thought you would understand, Sirius. I thought at least you'd give Draco a fair chance. But you're as bad as the rest of them…"

Sirius shrugged uncomfortably and let his eyes slide away from Harry's. "I have nothing against Draco Malfoy, except his name and his blood and his parents and his treatment of you all these years. The name and the blood I share, to an extent, so I understand how hard it is to live them down. The parents he can't help. He's not responsible for their actions. But his treatment of you is something else."

"I've forgiven him."

"Yes. Well." The dark eyes flicked back to his face. "You love him, don't you? That makes it easier to forgive."

Harry almost blurted out, _You could love him too_, but stopped himself in time. Sirius had no love in him for his family, so trotting out the family tie would mean less than nothing to him, and Sirius Black was not a man to open his heart to just anyone. After a long, awkward pause, Harry said, rather heavily, "At least you understand that much."

"I understand a lot more than you think." Sirius stared broodingly at the name on the tapestry, his face lined and troubled. Then he said, roughly, "I'm not a hypocrite, Harry, and it would be damned hypocritical of me to lecture you on the dangers of trusting Malfoy. I just want you to be careful. Your life is such a mess, as it is, and you spend so much of your time fighting the kind of evil no boy your age should even _think_ about, that it seems plain stupid to invite more trouble the way you do."

"Draco doesn't cause trouble," Harry began, but Sirius cut him off with a shake of his head.

"Draco _is_ trouble. He doesn't have to cause it."

"That's incredibly unfair!"

"It's the truth, whether it's fair or not. Potters and Malfoys can't breathe the same air without causing trouble for each other. Or Potters and Blacks, for that matter. Look at the trouble I caused for your parents, when I convinced James to change Secret-Keepers at the last moment! If I'd stayed out of it, done what he asked and kept my idiot mouth shut, your parents might still be alive!"

"You did what you thought was right…"

"And got Lily and James killed. So what will happen to you the next time Malfoy does what he thinks is right?" 

Harry said nothing, but swallowed painfully, remembering the feel of Draco's crystalline fingers around his throat. 

"Blacks and Potters," Sirius said, shaking his head again. "Like flame and tinder. I feel sorry for my cousin right now. I feel bad that he's gone off the rails and landed himself in a pile of dragon droppings. I feel bad that he's going to pay so dearly for defending himself and standing up for what's right. But I feel more sorry for you. And if it comes down to a choice between you and Malfoy…"

"Just like his mother," Harry murmured, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Sirius shrugged. "I can't help how I feel."

"Neither can I." He looked squarely into Sirius' frowning eyes. "And no offence, Sirius, but I'll choose Draco every time."

"Well, I suppose even a Black-Malfoy is entitled to one person who'll choose him first."

Harry broke out in the first real smile he'd managed in days. "Yeah."

Sirius gave him an awkward half-smile in return, but it faded quickly. "Go on back to the kitchen and eat your supper," he advised. "Molly won't say anything."

"I'm not hungry. I'm too nervous about tomorrow." He eyed Sirius thoughtfully for a moment, then he ventured, "All the nasty things that old Phineas called me… you and Mrs. Weasley acted like you've heard them before."

Sirius nodded, eyes wary.

"Do people say things like that a lot?"

"Some do. Some are a little more subtle about it."

"I guess I'm not the Hero of the Wizarding World anymore." Harry felt a curious twinge of relief, mixed with regret at that thought.

"Of course you are. That's why your bad taste in boyfriends matters so much to so many people."

"_Bad taste?!_"

Sirius chuckled and clouted him on the shoulder. "I'd give a lot to see you in front of the Wizengamot tomorrow. You'll set all those fussy old women back on their arses!" Pushing himself to his feet, he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and sidled toward the door, smiling apologetically down at Harry. "Buckbeak is waiting for his supper. He gets cranky when the meat is cold."

"Okay. And thank you, Sirius."

"For what?"

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "Trying."

Sirius thought about that for a moment, then nodded shortly and slipped out the door, leaving Harry alone with his tangled thoughts.

*** *** ***

It was past midnight when Harry finally climbed the stairs to his bedroom, and the entire house was silent except for a few, suspicious rustlings behind the wainscoting. Either Mrs. Weasley or Sirius had hung Phineas' portrait back in its place, and he sat there in his frame, all hunched up like an angry spider, glaring daggers at Harry. But Harry was so tired that he didn't have the energy to waste on the old villain. He undressed in numb silence, shoved the bundle of clean clothing off the bed, and crawled under the blankets without favoring his hostile babysitter with a single word.

He felt bruised in body and spirit, and so cold – from exhaustion and loneliness – that his feet ached with it. He wanted desperately to sleep, but instead he lay staring at the ceiling, trying to picture the closed ward of St. Mungo's where Draco was lying alone in a strange bed, hurting from the cold, wondering when he would be warm or safe or unafraid again. Just like Harry. 

The pain in Harry's chest expanded to fill every corner of him, turning the breath in his throat ragged and forcing hot tears from his eyes. Curling himself into a tight, defensive ball, Harry scrunched up in the middle of the mattress and pulled the blankets over his head. There, in the darkness where Draco always waited for him, he cried and cried until his body was light and empty. Then he slept.

And he dreamed.

_…They stood together atop the North Tower, under a brilliant canopy of stars. Draco's hair hung loose about his shoulders, stirred by a cold wind that neither of them felt, and his winter-grey eyes smiled an invitation. Harry stepped closer to him. The smile touched his lips, as he tilted his head back and let his eyes fall half closed, still gazing at Harry from beneath his lashes._

_Harry slipped his arms about the other boy's waist and pulled their bodies together. Draco lifted his hand to clasp the back of Harry's neck. His adamant fingers were cold and smooth against Harry's skin. Insistent. Irresistible. The silver flame inside him burned so brightly that it hurt Harry's eyes to look into his face, but he could not turn away. He was held by Draco's beauty._

_"I missed you," he whispered._

_Draco did not speak, but the flush of desire in his cheeks was answer enough. _

_"You're my archangel. Too beautiful to be real."_

_He could not resist the lure of that unearthly face. He had to touch it, to feel the white, perfect skin beneath his fingertips and see it heat at his caress. Slowly, he lifted his hand._

_Slimy, rotting fingers trailed gently down one smooth cheek, leaving a smear of filth behind them. Draco closed his eyes, his sharp features softened by desire, the tantalizing smile still curling his lips. Harry felt a jolt of raw lust go through him – a need so visceral, so elemental, that it transcended love or passion. It consumed him, ignited him, and all he knew in that moment was the unbearable need to fasten his mouth to Draco's and suck the magnificent silver fire from his body._

_He lifted both hands to clasp his lover's face between his glistening grey palms, cradling it, tilting it to bring the smiling lips up to meet his own…_

Harry sprang bolt upright in his bed, his heart slamming painfully against his ribs and the breath sobbing in his throat. He looked wildly around and saw that he was still in his room at Grimmauld Place, and weak sunshine was leaking through the flowered curtains. It was morning.

"Rise and shine, Potter!" Phineas Nigellus sang out, tauntingly. "Time to save the world!"

**_To be continued…_**


	10. We Can Be Heroes

**Author's Note:** I expect you all thought I'd fallen into a black hole, but surprise! I'm still here! And the Boys are still plaguing me with their angst and their sentimental drivel. So here's the long-overdue Chapter 9. I am very very very very sorry that it took so long! And I thank you for all your reviews, notes, encouragement and nagging; they kept me going through the rough bits.

I am leaving for vacation on 14 June, so if you write to me after that, I won't be home to get the e-mail. I will, however, answer you just as soon as possible when I get home. Until then… Enjoy!

-- Claire

P.S. The title comes from David Bowie's _Heroes_, which is my ultimate Harry/Draco inspiration song. Listen to the last verse. Think about this chapter. You'll get it.

* * *

**Chapter 9: _We Can Be Heroes_**

Harry ate his breakfast – what little of it he could choke down – in silence. He wanted to ask Dumbledore a host of questions, but he could not bring himself to discuss Draco or the trial with Sirius brooding at one end of the table and Mrs. Weasley fussing at the other. After Harry's explosion of the evening before, Mrs. Weasley did not speak directly to him but managed to communicate her motherly concern all the same. She clucked over his unruly hair, threw straightening spells at his robe and made a couple of attempts to adjust his tie which he dodged by the simple expedient of ignoring her.

She made a final stab at breaking through Harry's reserve as he and Dumbledore lingered in the kitchen doorway to assume their disguises. Catching him by the arm, she drew him into a swift, tight hug and whispered, "Be strong, Harry dear, and be careful."

Harry gave her a convulsive smile, his face too taut with strain for anything more natural, and ducked away before she could smooth his hair or straighten his tie. He escaped from Mrs. Weasley only to run straight into his godfather. Sirius leaned bonelessly against the doorjamb, hands thrust in his pockets, dark, troubled eyes fixed on Harry's face.

When he caught Harry's eye, he said in his rasping voice, "Let Dumbledore handle the Wizengamot, Harry. You keep your head down. And hold your temper, no matter what you hear."

Harry nodded.

"I don't know if I'll see you again when it's over, so…" He shrugged slightly and looked away. "Take care of yourself. And Malfoy."

"I will."

Mrs. Weasley sniffed loudly, but whether in disgust or sorrow Harry couldn't tell, and turned to bustle off into the kitchen. Dumbledore flicked his wand at Harry, and suddenly, Harry was looking down at his own feet but seeing the frayed jeans and heavy boots of a teenaged Muggle. His Hogwarts robe and sweeping cloak had turned to a scuffed leather bomber jacket over a few layers of motley t-shirts.

Harry glanced over at Dumbledore and saw a plump, cheerful personage with a vacant smile, reddish side whiskers, a grimy apron tied about his ample middle, and a badly crushed, rather moldy bowler hat on his head. He carried an enormous cardboard box in his hands that looked as though it should contain a cake. What it actually contained, Harry did not know, but he hoped it was a nasty surprise for Fudge and his cronies. Dumbledore being Dumbledore, there was always the possibility that it really did have a cake in it or fresh scones for the Wizengamot's breakfast, but Harry had to trust that even scones would have a purpose in the Headmaster's plan. Because, if Dumbledore didn't have a plan, they were sunk.

Familiar blue eyes twinkled at Harry out of the stranger's face beside him. "Shall we go?"

Harry stared at him for a moment, then blurted out, "Do you always pick disguises that look like the Minister of Magic?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "You're imagining things, Harry. The Minister never wears a dirty apron to work. Come along. We don't want to be late."

With that, the old wizard started up the stairs, Harry close on his heels. Mrs. Black was snoring in her portrait, and the dingy square of Grimmauld Place was empty. Harry and Dumbledore slipped out the front door and down the steps. Behind them, Number 12 withdrew into the shadow of the buildings to either side until it vanished entirely. Harry did not look back. He did not want to think about returning to Sirius' gloomy, depressing home or what it would mean for Draco if he did.

If they succeeded in freeing Draco, surely they would go straight back to Hogwarts. Dumbledore couldn't be planning to keep them in London, exposed to the dangers of Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic. The only possible reason for returning to Grimmauld Place would be that the Wizengamot decided against Draco and had him locked up somewhere in the city. Even if they sent him to Azkaban…

Harry clamped down on that thought and turned to Dumbledore anxiously. "Did you see Draco last night?"

"No. I told you that would not be allowed."

"Then we don't know if he's all right. What if he…?"

"I spoke at length with his healer at St. Mungo's," Dumbledore cut in soothingly, "a most sensible woman by the name of Iphigenia Fox and an old friend of mine, as it happens."

Harry eyed him dubiously. "They gave Draco to a friend of yours? Fudge would never do that."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled more brightly than ever. "I have a lot of friends that Cornelius Fudge knows nothing about. Trust me, Harry. I have everything well in hand, including Draco's welfare."

"I trust you," he said, glumly, drawing a chuckle from Dumbledore. After a moment, he added, very quietly, "I miss Draco. I know he isn't really _with_ me, even when he's with me, but I still miss him. And I worry about him."

"I know you do, my boy."

They had reached the Underground station, and the clatter of their feet on the steps of the broken escalator almost drowned out Harry's next words.

"Today, in that dungeon, could be the last time I ever see him. I can't stand to think about it."

Dumbledore said nothing, and as they boarded the train for central London, Harry felt depression thicken like a dank cloud about him. He found a place to stand in the crowded train and stared at the plastic cherries bobbing in the hat of a middle-aged Muggle seated nearby. The ride felt endless, and the close proximity of all those Muggles made it impossible for Harry to kill the time by talking to Dumbledore about the trial or Draco. What would the lady with the cherries in her hat think, if she heard him discussing the Minister of Magic or Unforgivable Curses with the portly baker beside him?

They reached the appropriate station at last, and Harry followed Dumbledore off the train, through the ticket gate, and up the fully functional escalator to the street. Harry did not remember the way to the Ministry, having only used the visitor's entrance once before and that nearly two years ago, but he recognized the way the buildings got smaller and shabbier with each corner they rounded, and the red phone box was exactly as he remembered it.

Harry felt increasingly as if he were revisiting an old nightmare. He had gone through all of this once before, when threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts and public humiliation as an attention-starved hysteric. The sweeping lobby of the Ministry of Magic, the ill-shaven security wizard who searched him and registered his wand, the clunking and creaking lift that ground slowly down to the dungeon – they had not changed a whit, and they gave Harry a familiar sense of creeping dread.

Finally, they stood outside the grimy door, with its enormous iron lock, and Harry threw a panicked look at Dumbledore. They had both resumed their normal appearance when they stepped out of the phone box, so it was the Headmaster's lined, humorous, bearded face that Harry saw in the dim light of the dungeon.

"Is it time?" Harry asked, his throat so tight that his voice came out as a croak.

Dumbledore shifted the wooden box he carried into the crook of one arm to check his watch. "In another minute or two."

Harry licked his lips and stared very hard at the door. So many emotions careened about inside him – from terror to elation that he would see Draco again in just another few minutes – that he could not make sense of them all. His innards were tied in a hundred knots, his hands shaking, his heart beating much too fast, and his breakfast sitting like lumps of coal in his stomach, burning holes in him. Dumbledore's soft voice made him start violently.

"Remember Snuffles' advice, Harry. You must hold your temper at all costs."

"I will."

"Harry." At the touch of Dumbledore's hand on his arm, he turned to meet the old wizard's kind, somber eyes. "You've had a taste of the bitterness and hostility felt by most of the wizarding community, so what is said during the trial shouldn't come as a surprise to you. Be prepared. And remain calm."

Harry swallowed noisily and asked, "Do they all feel the way Mrs. Weasley does?"

"No." Harry almost allowed himself a sigh of relief, then Dumbledore went on, implacably, "Molly Weasley loves you like a son and will forgive you nearly anything, eventually. I cannot say the same for the members of the Wizengamot."

"I thought they looked up to me as a hero."

"It's more complicated than that, especially with Fudge and his lackeys muddying the waters. No two wizards in that room feel exactly the same way about you, but I can safely say that they all agree on one thing."

"That Malfoy is bad for me."

"Precisely."

"So how do we convince them they're wrong?"

"We can't. The best we can do is convince them that it would be ethically wrong – or in Fudge's case, politically damaging – to punish him for killing his Death Eater father in self defense."

A dull, grinding, rasping noise from inside the door kept Harry from answering. The lock opened with an ominous clunk.

"Ah, it is time," Dumbledore said, his eyes beginning to twinkle again. He balanced his box on one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other. "Remember, Harry, stay calm and leave the talking to me." Then he pushed the great door open, and they walked into the Wizengamot dungeon.

Harry risked one glance at the dreadful chair in the center of the floor, just to assure himself that Draco was not seated in it, then he resolutely turned his eyes to the benches above and the veritable army of wizards and witches crowded onto them. He could not see their faces, except in the very lowest bench, where Fudge and his lackeys sat, but he could tell that there were far more than fifty people up there. The Wizengamot sat in the middle, ranged behind Fudge, Madam Bones, Dolores Umbridge, Percy Weasley, and – Harry's stomach clenched afresh at the sight of her – Narcissa Malfoy. Kingsley Shacklebolt and two women Harry had never seen before also sat on the front bench, but with a careful distance between them and Fudge's contingent.

Farther up and to either side, the formal purple robes of the Wizengamot gave way to clothing of every color and description. He felt sure that he knew some of those faceless wizards, but he could not see them clearly enough to be certain. A flare of red in the far corner to the left told him that one or more of the Weasleys had come. Harry hoped it wasn't Mrs. Weasley. He didn't think he could bear to sit and listen to Narcissa Malfoy's foul accusations and reflections on his love life with dear, confused, angry Mrs. Weasley hearing it all.

The crowd broke out in a rustle of murmurs and whispers at Harry and Dumbledore's entrance. Dumbledore put a hand on Harry's arm and drew him over to one side, where Fudge had placed two of the most uninviting chairs Harry had ever seen. They had straight, carved backs, plain wooden seats, and looked to be about three inches too short. Clearly, the Minister was trying to diminish them in the eyes of the Wizengamot and make them as uncomfortable as possible.

Dumbledore eyed the chairs in amusement, pulled out his wand, and gave it a flourish. The chairs grew several inches, and cushions in Dumbledore's favorite Victorian print appeared on their seats. Fudge watched, tight-lipped, as Dumbledore added curved, padded arms for good measure then motioned for Harry to take his seat. Titters and chuckles sounded from various points around the room.

Fudge pursed his lips in disapproval, waited pointedly for the noise to subside, then said, "If Albus is finished playing with the furniture, we can begin."

Dumbledore bowed graciously to him to signal his readiness, then sat down and set the box on the floor beside his chair.

"You and Potter are the only witnesses for the defense?"

"If I think of anyone else, I'll let you know."

The disapproval in Fudge's face deepened at this show of insouciance. Raising his voice, he called, "Bring in the accused!"

The shadows at the back of the dungeon floor stirred and formed themselves into a large wizard in dusty, charcoal grey robes. Harry could now see two other wizards flanking him, standing quietly by the wall. As the wizard strode out the door, Harry felt every muscle in his body tense in anticipation, and he clutched the arms of his chair 'til his knuckles whitened, fighting the urge to leap to his feet and run for the door in the guard's wake.

Dumbledore placed a warning hand on his arm. "Be patient, Harry. And stay calm."

Harry did not answer. He was craning his neck around to watch the door. Two minutes later, the guard returned with Draco Malfoy beside him.

Someone had taken pains with Draco's clothing. He looked precise and elegant in his Hogwarts robe, Slytherin tie, neatly creased trousers and fur-lined winter cloak. His hair was combed back into a queue at the nape of his neck, tied with a black satin ribbon, and it gleamed like polished silver in the dim light of the dungeon. At a casual glance, he appeared perfectly at ease and in control. Only a closer look at his face betrayed his true state of mind.

Harry stared hard at him, trying to determine how far he had retreated from his hostile and unfamiliar surroundings, and was not reassured. Draco looked utterly vacant, his eyes shuttered, his face shadowed with exhaustion and a pain that had nothing to do with physical wounds. He had not slept, Harry knew at a glance, and probably had not eaten. If the guard were not forcing him to move with a ham-like hand on his arm, his legs would collapse and he would turn to a broken marble statue.

The guard led Draco to the chair that stood in the center of the floor. It was large and heavy, its sturdy arms wrapped with chains that clanked and shifted ominously as it quarry approached. A practiced shove by the guard propelled Draco into the chair. Draco obediently sat, but he stayed huddled in the middle of the wide seat, his arms in close to his body and his right hand lying in his lap. The guard grabbed his left arm and pulled it, roughly, into place on the arm of the chair.

The chains sprang fully to life and began coiling themselves about the prisoner's wrist, but they merely rattled against the wood of the chair, finding no limb to bind. A hum of noise rose from the audience, punctuated with some rather sour laughter, and the guard gave the chains an irritated whack with his wand. They stopped moving. He tapped them again, and they slid up the arm of the chair to loop around Draco's forearm, just below the elbow. The guard bound Draco's right arm more conventionally and returned to his place at the back of the dungeon.

Every eye now fixed on Draco Malfoy, and the room fell eerily quiet.

The enormous, rough-hewn chair, meant to intimidate and overawe the prisoners restrained in it, only served to make Draco look smaller and more fragile than ever. The effect was intensified by the fact that he seemed utterly unaware of the chains binding him, unaware of the dungeon, the Wizengamot, and even of his own plight. He sat very still, his bright head tilted slightly to one side, his eyes fixed emptily on a spot somewhere above Fudge's left shoulder, and waited. An almost palpable surprise rippled through the audience, as witches and wizards who had been spoon-fed horror stories about the evil and perverted Draco Malfoy by the _Daily Prophet_ finally saw him in the flesh.

He looked nothing like the demon of their imaginings. His resemblance to his father was pronounced and unfortunate, under the circumstances, but he demonstrated none of Lucius Malfoy's arrogance or silken menace. Indeed, he looked quite young, quite innocent and entirely harmless perched in that great, grim chair. One might even be pardoned for pitying him, given the fate that awaited him in Azkaban.

Fudge sensed the shift in attitude as clearly as Harry did, and he didn't like it. Surging to his feet, he rustled his papers importantly and turned to Percy, asking a bit too loudly, "Do you have the charge sheet, Weasley?"

"Yes, Minister!" Percy blurted out, springing half out of his seat in his eagerness to thrust the parchment at Fudge.

"Very good, very good. You will begin recording now."

"Yes, Minister!"

Fudge harrumphed and began to spout the usual formal phrases that began the trial, naming the various participants – Narcissa Malfoy as the accuser; Harry and Dumbledore as the witnesses for the defense; and himself, Amelia Bones and Dolores Umbridge as the interrogators. Then he brandished the parchment that Percy had given him and read out the charges in a pompous voice that tried and failed to sound authoritative. As Harry listened, the feeling of familiarity intensified, and his stomach dropped another few notches toward his boots.

When he had finished with these preliminaries, Fudge dropped the parchment onto the writing desk in front of him and fixed Draco with eyes so full of loathing that Harry flinched at the sight of them.

"Draco Malfoy, you stand accused, before this court and all the wizarding world, of the foulest crime that any wizard may commit: the use of an Unforgivable Curse upon the person of another wizard. For this crime alone, leaving aside the question of whom you murdered with your curse and why, the Wizengamot would be within its rights to send you to Azkaban prison immediately, without the courtesy of a public trial."

A discontented murmur went through the upper benches at that.

"There is precedent for it!" Fudge snapped. "Did this court not send countless Death Eaters to Azkaban without trials, when the crimes were heinous enough and the proof of guilt incontrovertible? And has Albus Dumbledore himself not proven that those desperate times are upon us again? With the Dark Lord and his minions stalking our streets and threatening our children, we have more than justification, we have the _responsibility_ to take swift action!"

He was working himself into a froth, and some of the Wizengamot began to shift impatiently in their seats. Fudge heard the rustling and abruptly reined himself in.

Clearing his throat again, he resumed in his cold, lofty tone, "This court, however, is not in the business of summary punishment, but of reasoned and even-handed justice. In the interests of justice, we cannot condemn a young man of good family and… proven ability to a life sentence in Azkaban without a hearing. Therefore, we have chosen to hold this public trial, so that you may _explain_ to us why you struck down your own father with the Avada Kedavra curse."

Fudge paused, and not so much as a whisper broke the charged silence. Draco sat utterly still, his face empty, his eyes fixed on nothing, while the audience waited for him to react.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, before we begin?"

Another pause followed, in which many of the purple-robed wizards began to frown and mutter, and Harry felt his annoyance grow. It was Narcissa who finally spoke.

"Of course he doesn't, Minister. Look at him. He hasn't got a rational thought in his head, thanks to that precious pair." She flicked a contemptuous hand at Harry and Dumbledore.

Fudge looked rather put out that she had interrupted his grand opening move and disturbed the atmosphere he had worked so hard to create. The Wizengamot were no longer looking at the small, pale boy in chains as a victim, but as a lurking evil, veiled behind the face of innocence. Or they had been drifting in that direction, until Narcissa ruined the effect of his words. Now they were throwing her speculative, faintly hostile looks, remembering that she was the wife of a known Death Eater and suspected of complicity with You-Know-Who.

"Very well, very well," Fudge said, and shuffled his papers importantly. "Let us start with the eyewitness…"

"Wait a moment, Cornelius," Madam Bones cut in. She was frowning down at Draco, her monocle glinting in the torchlight, but Harry thought she looked more thoughtful than angry. "What's this about the boy not being in his right mind?"

"We don't know that he isn't," Fudge said, testily. "That is one of the details we have to clear up today."

Her frown deepened. "This is in clear violation of the Wizengamot Charter of Rights. The accused must be allowed to speak for himself."

"The International Ban on Unforgivable Curses supersedes the Charter, as you know perfectly well, Amelia. There is nothing in the Ban to prevent us passing judgment on Malfoy, no matter what his mental state. We don't even have to let him watch! Now, may we please get on with this?"

Madam Bones subsided, but she was still frowning. "Go on, then. But I want it on record that I was not previously informed of Malfoy's incapacity, and that I strenuously object to these proceedings." She glared extra hard at Percy. "Write it down, Weasley, in nice, neat script, so everyone can read it."

Percy ducked his head and scribbled furiously.

Fudge tried to look as though he found Madam Bones' quibbles amusing, but he failed. His lips were tight with annoyance and his cheeks flushed when he said, "Since you're so concerned with Malfoy's mental state, we'll begin there. Iphigenia, if you would stand, please."

One of the witches seated next to Kingsley Shacklebolt rose to her feet and turned a piercing gaze on Fudge. She looked like a cross between Professor McGonagall and Aunt Petunia, with her angular features, pinched nostrils and stern expression, and Harry would have found her positively alarming had Dumbledore not told him that she was a friend. She wore a lime green robe, with the emblem of St. Mungo's embroidered on the chest.

Fudge turned to Percy and said, "Expert witness Iphigenia Fox, Healer, head of the Spell Damage ward at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries." Addressing himself to Madam Fox, he went on, "Draco Malfoy was placed your care at approximately five o'clock yesterday afternoon, was he not?"

"If you mean that you locked him up on my ward, yes." Her voice was dry, her words crisp, and her manner tinged with an ironic humor that seemed to instantly nettle Fudge.

He pressed his lips together for a moment, then asked, "Were you able to examine the boy and determine if this… this breakdown of his is genuine?"

"Of course it is."

"He isn't physically injured…" Fudge began to protest, but Madam Fox cut him off with a contemptuous gesture.

"Mr. Malfoy is suffering the effects of a severe trauma. He is withdrawn; disoriented; detached mentally and emotionally from his environment; and slipping in and out of contact with reality. These symptoms should be familiar to all of you. We've seen them often enough." Her eyes swept the room, challenging any of them to deny it. "The boy is spell-shocked."

An uncomfortable silence met her words, which Fudge interrupted by clearing his throat. "Can you treat him?"

"Given time, probably. He hasn't completely detached. He still responds to some stimuli and recognizes certain people." Her eyes flicked briefly to Harry, and her face softened. "These are positive signs." Then her face hardened again, and she added, "Of course, if you plan to pack him off to Azkaban, it's a moot point."

"Thank you, Iphigenia. Amelia? Any questions?"

"Just one," Madam Bones said, gruffly. "Can you tell what caused his breakdown?"

"Only Malfoy can tell us that."

"On the contrary." Narcissa rose to her feet and looked down her aristocratic nose at the much shorter Madam Fox. "I can tell you what overset my son's mind. I was there; I saw it happen."

"Do you think she really was there," Harry whispered to Dumbledore, "under one of those hoods?"

"It's possible, certainly, but that is not the story we are about to hear."

"What should we do?"

"Be quiet, listen, and answer the questions put to us honestly."

Harry sighed inwardly but did not argue. Knotting his fingers together in his lap, he fixed his eyes steadily on Mrs. Malfoy's face and willed himself not to react, no matter what sort of lies came out of her mouth.

"Very well, Narcissa," Fudge said, raising his voice to quell the mutters from the audience, "please give us your eyewitness account of Lucius' death."

"That is easily done, but it will not answer Madam Bones' question. To grasp the full extent of my son's illness, you must hear the entire sordid tale, going all the way back to the so-called Siege of Hogwarts."

"Let's stick to the murder, shall we?" Madam Bones said, dryly. "We all know about the siege."

"You do not know Draco's role in it."

"One thing at a time."

Narcissa nodded her acceptance, but her face had turned colder and haughtier than ever. "On the evening of March the 21st, Lucius and I were preparing to leave the Manor, when we heard a disturbance in the forecourt. Someone was attempting to break down the main doors, which are charmed to open only to members of our family, and the doors were protesting.

"Lucius immediately went to investigate. I remained in my dressing room until I heard voices raised in the entryway. I recognized them as belonging to my husband and my son."

"Ah, one moment, my dear," Dumbledore called, lifting a hand to signal for attention. "If I might ask a question…?"

"You are a witness, Albus, not an interrogator," Fudge said. "It is not your place to ask questions."

"But, as you have so rightly pointed out, this is not a proper trial and not subject to the restrictions of the Charter. So where's the harm?"

Fudge was about to protest, but Amelia Bones cut in, "You can't have it both ways, Cornelius. Either this is a formal trial, bound by the Charter, or it's a…" She broke off, grimaced, and continued in a growling voice, "I _am_ an interrogator, and I cede to Dumbledore my right to question the witness. Go on, Albus. Ask."

Fudge sat down with a thump and nodded curtly at Dumbledore.

"Thank you, Minister. Madam Bones. Just a brief clarification, if you please, Narcissa. Was it your son, Draco, who was attempting to break down the doors?"

"Yes."

"Doors charmed to open only for members of the Malfoy family?"

"Yes."

"Then how is it that they did not open for him?"

Narcissa's face tightened, but whether in pain or fury Harry could not tell. "After the incidents at Hogwarts, Lucius instructed them not to admit Draco. When it became clear to him that his son could not be trusted."

"When Draco was no longer fit to be called a Malfoy," Dumbledore added, gently.

Narcissa bared her teeth in a swift, pained grimace. "I have you to thank for that."

"Go on, Narcissa," Madam Bones interjected. "Stick to the facts."

"As I came down the stairs, I heard Draco screaming insults and threats at his father. There was an edge of hysteria to his voice, of madness, and I feared that he might do harm to Lucius or to himself, so I prepared to disarm him. But when I reached the entryway, I saw that Draco had no wand."

Dumbledore's head came up sharply. "You searched him?"

"He had no wand _in his hand_," she amended. "I foolishly assumed that he could not hurt Lucius without a wand, and I dropped my guard." Her face contorted with grief. "I never dreamed that my son would turn on his own father in such a way. I thought that we could persuade him to seek help, to place himself in our care. After all, he had fled Hogwarts and come home to us! That must signal some vestige of sanity or filial duty left in him, somewhere beneath the layers of filth and treachery and sickness that smothered him!"

Narcissa paused to collect herself, and Harry half expected Dumbledore to break in on the eager silence, to use his guileless manner and needle-sharp wit to destroy the mood she had conjured with her words. But Dumbledore sat as still as the rest of them – as still as Draco, lost and broken, huddled so far within himself that his mother's eloquent lies did not even touch him – waiting for her to continue.

"I was a fool!" Narcissa rasped out, at last. "I forgot who my true enemy was. I thought that my child was strong enough to resist Dumbledore's sorcery and Potter's seduction, but I underestimated them."

Madam Bones raised her eyebrows at that. "You witnessed, er, 'Dumbledore's sorcery and Potter's seduction' there in your foyer?"

"I did! It was right there in front of my eyes – in Draco's madness, in his abuse of his father, in that abominable hand!"

Madam Bones looked pointedly at Draco's empty sleeve, then at Dumbledore. "I'd like to see that hand. I've heard the rumors, right enough, but I'd like to examine it for myself."

Fudge waved in Kingsley Shacklebolt's general direction and said, "The hand has been checked by Ministry wizards, and we'll all get to see it later. For the moment, let's…"

"Did you find any Dark spells in it, Kingsley? Any sign that it was used to subdue Malfoy or affect his mind?" Madam Bones demanded, ignoring Fudge's attempts to hurry her along.

"None," Shacklebolt answered, firmly.

"Hmph." Her stern eyes shifted to Mrs. Malfoy, and she almost growled, "No more tarradiddles, Narcissa. Tell us how Lucius died and be done with it."

Mrs. Malfoy's back stiffened alarmingly, and she spoke through her teeth, as though she couldn't trust herself to unclench her jaw. "When he could not calm or restrain Draco, Lucius ordered him from the house. Draco ran out the door, down the steps and into the court. Lucius followed, to see him through the gate, and I stepped into the doorway. I saw Draco turn just before he reached the gate. I heard him scream Potter's name – pleading with him, cursing him, I do not know – then he flung out his hand, pointed at Lucius, and… There was a flash of green light. Lucius fell. Draco stood there in the middle of the court, staring at his father's body, with tears on his face, then he turned and ran. When I… thought to look for him, he was gone."

A long, uncomfortable silence met her final words. The glances cast at Draco were no longer pitying or thoughtful; they were cold and grim. And Harry felt more than one hostile glance on his own neck as well. Finally, the Minister shuffled the papers lying on his desk, making them rustle loudly, and cleared his throat.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt accompanied investigators from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to inspect the body for signs of illegal magic. Kingsley, do your findings agree with Mrs. Malfoy's testimony?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking tall and impressive in his sweeping scarlet robes, rose to his feet. "As to the manner of Lucius' death, they do."

"He was killed by an Unforgivable Curse?"

"Yes. I found unmistakable traces of the Avada Kedavra curse in his body."

"Were you able to determine when he died?"

"I would say two or three days before my examination. As you know, spell traces fade when the tissue begins to decompose, and all of the magic in his body was rapidly dissipating."

"Wait a moment," Madam Bones muttered, reaching for the sheaf of parchment on Fudge's desk. She shuffled through the pages until she found what she was looking for. "Here it is. My department was informed of Lucius Malfoy's death on March the 25th. Narcissa claims he died on March the 21st."

"Four days," Fudge said, impatiently. "It could still fit."

She shot Narcissa a fierce look from beneath her eyebrows and snapped, "Four days? What were you doing for the four days _before_ you reported Lucius' death to the Ministry?"

Narcissa's chin lifted another notch. "Looking for my son."

"I can vouch for that," Dumbledore said, mildly.

"Alone?" Madam Bones demanded. "Knowing that he was unhinged and dangerous? After watching him murder his father on the front stoop? That strikes me as a singularly foolish thing to do, Narcissa."

"He is my son," Mrs. Malfoy stated, coldly, "and my responsibility."

"According to you, he's a homicidal lunatic." Madam Bones' hard gaze shifted to Draco for a moment, and something resembling a smile quirked one corner of her mouth. "If half of what you say is true, _I_ wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley."

"Enough," Fudge spluttered. "That's enough, Amelia! Mrs. Malfoy is not on trial, here."

"Oh, do spare us that one, Cornelius, _please_. You're asking us to send a sixteen-year-old boy to Azkaban, based on her word. Of course she's on trial. So are Potter and Dumbledore, for that matter. The whole lot of them have some serious explaining to do, and I, for one, am sick of you pussy-footing around the issue!"

"I!" gasped Fudge.

"_You_." Turning to Kingsley, she said, brusquely, "You said that you could verify the manner of Lucius' death. What about the rest of her story? And don't tart it up, Kingsley. Just tell it."

Shacklebolt gave her a glinting smile and bowed. "Very well. I found that Lucius Malfoy was killed by an Avada Kedavra curse, somewhere on or about March the 22nd. He was moved from the spot where he died and placed in his own bed by his wife, Narcissa Black Malfoy. He still had traces of the curse in his body, but when I examined the spot on the stairs where he apparently died, I could find no such traces."

"Residual magic generally doesn't fade more quickly from stone than from decaying flesh, does it?"

"No. Stone doesn't break down the way tissue does and tends to hold the magic much longer."

"How do you account for the fact that you found no traces of the spell?"

"I expect she mistook the exact spot where it happened… in the heat of the moment, as it were."

Madam Bones harrumphed loudly but offered no further comment. "What about this adamant hand of Malfoy's?"

"I have it right here."

Extending a hand down to the witch seated next to him, he took a small chest from her and flipped it open. A moment later, a ripple of awe went through the room, and the benches shook as every single witch and wizard leaned forward for a better look. Kingsley held up Draco's adamant hand across his palms, turning it slowly so that its facets glittered and shone in the torchlight.

"Dumbledore surrender it to the Ministry last night, after Malfoy's arrest. I spent much of last night studying it. As you can see, it is an artificial hand made entirely of adamant – a beautiful piece of work, I must say. Unfortunately, it's been damaged. The two outer fingers are gone – blown off, from the looks of them. The essential structure is intact, however, and I'm sure that the hand is still functional, when attached."

Madam Bones whistled appreciatively through her teeth. "Imagine. A crystalline hand that moves like flesh and blood… Is it a wand?"

"Yes, certainly it could act as one."

"Did you find traces of the Avada Kedavra curse in it?"

Shacklebolt nodded. "I did."

"Here, wait a minute." A bulky, square-jawed wizard with a thatch of straw-colored hair, dressed in the purple robes of the Wizengamot, rose to his feet, drawing all eyes to him. "Are you telling us Draco Malfoy used that pretty thing, there, to kill Lucius?"

"So it would appear," Kingsley answered, calmly.

"How d'you know Malfoy did it? You're standing there, holding the thing, couldn't _you_ have used it as a wand and killed that old bug… uh, Lucius?"

"No. Once the adamant is attuned to one wizard's power, no one else can use it. I could not light a candle with this, but Draco Malfoy could burn the Ministry to the ground."

"Right, then. How d'you know it's attuned to young Malfoy?"

Once again, Madam Bones cut in with her dry, ironic voice. "Oh, come, Sturgis. How many adamant hands do you imagine we have lying around?" A hum of amusement from the upper benches met her words. "And how many one-handed wizards to use them?"

Dumbledore stood up and nodded toward the square-faced wizard, whom Harry now recognized as Sturgis Podmore, a member of the Order and another of Dumbledore's secret supporters. "I can assure you that the hand belongs to Draco Malfoy. I, with the help of Minerva McGonagall, made it for him; I attached it in place of his missing hand; and I removed it."

"Why did you remove it?" Madam Bones asked.

"In his current state, I thought it unwise to leave him, er, _armed_."

Podmore gave a bark of laughter and sat down.

Madam Bones frowned. "Did he attack someone with it? Cast a spell?"

"He made a Patronus with it."

"A Patronus! I thought Potter was the only student at Hogwarts who could generate a true Patronus."

"So did we, until Mr. Malfoy set one on Mr. Potter."

"Hmph. Why would he do that?"

"He was not thinking clearly," Dumbledore said, gently, "and mistook his friend for a dementor."

"Or he was thinking more clearly than you care to admit," Narcissa sneered, "and was trying to protect himself from _Potter_."

Dumbledore eyed her coldly for a moment, then asked, "Was he thinking clearly when he tried to jump to his death from a window to escape a group of students in black robes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"No. You weren't there to save his life, but Harry was. Just as Harry saved his life during the siege. Just as he saved it when Lucius tried to take Draco from Hogwarts by force. I should think, as his mother, that you would be grateful to have Harry so close to him."

"As his mother, I would rather see him dead than in _Harry Potter's bed!_"

A grim, charged silence met this outburst, broken at last when Dumbledore turned to smile reassuringly at Harry. "That's the crux of matter, isn't it?" He looked up at Narcissa again, still smiling, but with no warmth in his face. "You don't approve of your son's choices, so you blame his… shall we say, _lapse_ on Harry. The truth is, Narcissa, that you will never forgive Draco for choosing me over the Dark Lord, for choosing loyalty to Harry over loyalty to Lucius, and so you must find someone to blame. Someone to hate. It's either that or admit that your son loves another more than he does you."

"Potter?" she said, her lip lifting with contempt.

"No, himself. His own honor and sense of rightness. His own life." Amazingly, Dumbledore looked at her with genuine sympathy in his eyes. "He does love you, Narcissa, as he loved Lucius. That is why he suffers. But he does not love Voldemort." The entire room flinched at the sound of that name. "You raised him to be proud and strong, but you ask him to bow before a master he does not love, to sacrifice both strength and pride to please his father."

"And what do you ask of him, Dumbledore? To prostitute himself? To do murder at your behest? To sacrifice his _sanity_ to your lust for revenge?"

"You know that isn't true."

"I was _there!_ I saw what he did to his own father! I saw the madness and pain in his eyes…"

"So did I," Dumbledore said, very quietly.

She drew herself up in triumph and stared down her aristocratic nose at him. "You lie. Only Lucius and I were there, only Lucius and I know what happened, and Lucius is dead."

"What of Draco? He was there, and he remembers," Dumbledore gestured to the boy sitting so quietly in the enormous chair, "with shattering clarity."

Many of the Wizengamot wizards were now muttering together, speculating as to what Dumbledore had up his sleeve. Others were frowning at Draco, unhappy with the turn the hearing had taken, while yet others were smiling and nodding, anticipating a good show from the wily old wizard who never let them down. Fudge looked decidedly unsettled.

"What are you getting at, Dumbledore?" the Minister asked, querulously. "You're not going to pretend the boy told you anything useful!"

"Not directly, no."

"Then it still comes down to Narcissa's sworn testimony against a lot of fine words from you that don't mean a thing in a court of law!"

"It comes down to the truth," Dumbledore said, his voice suddenly hard and uncompromising. "And the truth is that Draco Malfoy killed his father in self defense, while trying to escape a fate worse than death at the hands of Voldemort and the dementors. Whether or not Narcissa witnessed this, I don't know. The participants were hooded and unrecognizable. But I witnessed it, and Harry witnessed it, exactly as Draco did. From within his memories."

"Preposterous!" Fudge spluttered.

"Come now, Cornelius, you know better than that. You have all been inside a Pensieve at one point or another, and you know how clear and accurate the memories are when viewed that way."

"A Pensieve… a Pensieve?… but the boy is mad…" The whispers and questions ran about the walls and up into the shadowed ceiling. "It's ridiculous to think he could… only Dumbledore would come up with a dodge like this… is it possible we could see the boy's own memories? But he is mad… mad… only look at him…"

"Order! _Order!_" Fudge bellowed, until the voices died down. "The boy is mad, Dumbledore. His memories are meaningless."

"His mind is fragmented now, shattered by the horrors his own father inflicted upon him, but it was sound enough when he faced Voldemort."

Fresh babble broke out, and Fudge shouted for order until his face turned red. Before he could catch his breath, Amos Diggory was on his feet, calling to Dumbledore, "Can you show us what's in the Pensieve, so we can judge for ourselves?"

"Certainly." Gesturing toward the ornate box that sat beside his chair, Dumbledore said, "I brought it with me and am prepared to summon the memories for all of you to witness."

"No!" Narcissa Malfoy leapt to her feet, dignity forgotten in rage. "I will not allow it! He is using my son for his own ends, and this is but another manipulation, another violation of Draco's mind!" Whirling on Dumbledore, she hissed, "Is it not enough that you have reduced him to _this?!_ Must you parade his delusions in front of the entire wizarding world, as well?"

"Please, Narcissa," Fudge began, only to be shouted down by another wizard seated a few rows above.

"A Pensieve can't lie! If Dumbledore's taken those memories straight from Malfoy's head, they _must_ tell us the truth!"

"The truth as he _remembers_ it," a portly witch, whose flaming red curls clashed abominably with her purple robe, interjected. "Who's to say his madness hasn't warped his memory?"

"Look at the memories and decide for yourself," Dumbledore suggested, mildly.

"It's the only way we'll get at the truth," Sturgis insisted.

"The truth, certainly… _If_ those truly are Draco Malfoy's memories in the Pensieve." As she spoke, Dolores Umbridge leaned forward in her seat to gaze down at Dumbledore, her malevolent toad's face creased in a thoroughly unpleasant smile. This was the first time Umbridge had spoken or drawn attention to herself since the start of the hearing, and Harry had almost forgotten her presence. But the sound of her poisonously-sweet voice went down his spine like a dementor's finger and made him shudder. "Then again," she cooed, "perhaps they are _not_."

Several of the listeners straightened up at that and started glancing around, curiously, as if looking for a clue as to how the other members of the court were leaning. Fudge smiled smugly. Dumbledore merely raised his eyebrows at Umbridge and waited for her to elaborate on her theme.

"The Widow Malfoy has made some serious accusations against the Headmaster – accusations that could land both Professor Dumbledore and young Mr. Potter in a deal of trouble." She offered her rapt audience a simpering smile and added, at her most caressing, "What is to stop Albus Dumbledore – the most powerful wizard of our age – from tampering with Mr. Malfoy's memories to suit his own ends?"

Dumbledore's face did not change, even when murmurs from the Wizengamot proved that some of them, at least, agreed with Umbridge. "What ends might those be?"

"Why, to protect Harry Potter from the consequences of his actions. Surely that much is obvious."

"Indeed." Dumbledore smiled, but his eyes were cold. "You leave me with no recourse, Dolores. If the memories of Draco Malfoy himself are not to be trusted as evidence…"

"Gracious, Professor, did I say that? No, no, you misunderstand me. Draco Malfoy is the only surviving witness to the crime, other than Narcissa, and his memories are key to our understanding of events."

"Thank you for that clarification."

"It is not the boy's _memories_ that I question, but the _manner_ in which they have been obtained. I would suggest, with all due respect to our esteemed Headmaster, that memories taken from the accused without Ministry wizards present and placed in a Pensieve over which the Ministry has had no control are tainted as evidence. They are, in fact, quite useless."

"Because I have tampered with them," Dumbledore said.

"_May_ have tampered with them," Umbridge corrected, dulcetly.

Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, his face flushed with anger, but Amos Diggory got in before him. "What are you suggesting, Dolores? That we use our own Pensieve to take memories from him?"

Her eyelids drooped to hide the gleam of malice in her eyes. "If only we could. But as Dumbledore has already taken them for _his_ Pensieve…"

"I thought you said those weren't Malfoy's memories in there."

She shrugged helplessly. "Who's to say? Perhaps they are, or perhaps Dumbledore started with genuine memories and altered them to hide his own guilt."

"Guilt over _what?_" Sturgis Podmore demanded. "Just what, exactly, is Dumbledore supposed to have done that would require him to… to plunder Malfoy's mind and warp his memories?"

Narcissa surged to her feet again and flung out an accusatory finger to point at Dumbledore. "He sent my son to kill his own father!"

"Oh, come now, Narcissa," Diggory protested, "this is Dumbledore we're talking about."

"Oh, yes! The most _respected and powerful_ wizard of our age!" she jeered. "Bow and scrape to him if you like, Amos Diggory, but I know him for what he is. It is true that Draco used an Unforgivable Curse on his father, but Dumbledore is to blame for it! Dumbledore and that… that…"

"Potter the Poofter," someone muttered, just loud enough to be heard by all. Ugly laughter exploded from several places in the room, and even Fudge allowed himself a tight smile.

Harry clenched his teeth together and gripped the arms of his chair, but he did not need Dumbledore's warning hand on his arm to keep him in his seat. He knew perfectly well that he must not allow the contempt gathering like a visible miasma in the room to goad him into a show of temper. It was just a name. A name and a few snickers could not hurt him.

Fudge, still wearing his nasty little smile, said, "I think, in light of Dolores' concerns about the, er, authenticity of the contents of the Pensieve, that we should consider another means of examining Malfoy's memories."

"There is no other way," Amos Diggory snapped.

"There's Veritaserum," Madam Bones offered, a bit reluctantly Harry thought.

Narcissa reacted as violently to that suggestion as she had to the use of the Pensieve. The color drained from her face, and she jerked around in her seat to stare at Madam Bones in outrage. "No! You cannot!"

"This court can order the use of Veritaserum, if we choose," Fudge retorted in irritation.

"You cannot hold a sick child's mind up to public ridicule!"

"May I remind you that he is not a sick child; he is a wizard accused of the foulest of crimes. Accused out of your own mouth, my dear."

Diggory scowled at Madam Bones, mentally chewing over her suggestion, refusing to be distracted by Fudge's exchange with Narcissa. "If Dumbledore has put his memories in the Pensieve, how will we learn anything with Veritaserum?"

"Memories in the Pensieve are single mental threads, coherent in themselves but not the entire past experience. Emotions remain, bits and pieces not part of the central thread, other memories from the same moment not captured with the first. Any given memory is a very complex web of perceptions and responses. If you ask the right question…"

"Even if we couldn't learn the truth about Lucius' death," the flame-haired witch cut in, impatiently, "we could get to the bottom of this business with Potter."

"This is not a peep show," Madam Bones growled.

"The true nature of Potter's relationship with Malfoy is pertinent to the case, if Potter is responsible for Malfoy's attack on his father!" the witch protested.

Amos nodded agreement. "I find it hard to believe that Lucius Malfoy's son would take up with Harry Potter all on his own, and if there was some kind of force involved…"

"_Force?_" Harry hissed under his breath to Dumbledore. "What are they doing? Trying to prove that I raped Draco?"

"Calm down, Harry."

"They're going to give Draco Veritaserum and make him tell them all about our… about _us_. Do you expect me to just sit here and listen?"

"I expect you to hold your temper and let me handle it."

Harry made a furious, strangled noise deep in his throat and bounded to his feet, gasping, "No!"

The Wizengamot paid him no mind, as they were all intent on the odious Dolores Umbridge and her latest poisonous utterance. "Under the influence of Veritaserum, Draco Malfoy cannot lie. Nor can he be swayed by others. It is the only way to be sure we're hearing his version of events."

"I'm not comfortable with administering Veritaserum to someone in Malfoy's condition," Madam Bones protested.

"You're the one who suggested it," Fudge cried in exasperation. "If not Veritaserum then what? What will satisfy your delicate conscience, Amelia?"

"End this farce and send the boy back to St. Mungo's, where he belongs," Amelia retorted, crossing her arms in a gesture of defiance.

"That is not an option. We must determine the truth and make a final judgment…"

"And expose any wrongdoing on the part of Mr. Potter or Albus Dumbledore," Umbridge added, sweetly.

"_Stop it!_" Harry shouted, bringing a shocked silence down on the squabbling wizards. "Stop it, all of you!"

Fudge fixed him with a cold, disdainful eye and snapped, "Be quiet, Mr. Potter, or you will be removed."

"You can't remove me! I'm a witness for the defense, and I have the right to speak! Or has Draco's right to have anyone else speak for him been waived along with his right to speak for _himself?_"

"That is quite enough."

Madam Bones threw Fudge a startled look. "On the contrary, Mr. Potter has an excellent point. I think you should let him talk."

"So he can spin more lies?"

"I wasn't aware that we'd decided Potter's testimony was to be jettisoned, along with Dumbledore's testimony and Malfoy's own memories. It seems to me that you're arbitrarily doing away with the entire defense, simply because you find it inconvenient."

Fudge sighed in his best longsuffering manner, and Harry could almost see him scrambling to salvage his advantage. "This entire discussion is about Malfoy's defense. We are trying to establish a fair, even-handed way to determine what really happened…"

"You don't want to know what really happened!" Harry blurted out, heedless of the disrespect he showed to this august body with his outburst. "You didn't bring us here to learn the truth at all! You brought us here to dig up dirt on Lucius Malfoy's son!"

"We did not bring _you_ here at all, Mr. Potter," Fudge retorted, severely. "You chose to come, and now you must abide by the rules of this court."

"I tried. I sat here, quietly, while you discussed my personal life, accused me of everything you could think of, and humiliated someone I love very much. But now you're refusing to look at the real evidence – the evidence that would explain everything and tell you exactly what happened the night Mr. Malfoy died – because you'd rather mess with Draco's mind and find reasons to separate us."

Fudge's face hardened, his weak, pudgy features turning the closest thing to haughty that they could manage. "This is not about your schoolboy romances, Potter."

"No, it's about saving The Boy Who Lived from a Death Eater's son! Isn't it, Minister? The least you could do, when you're about to violate a sick person's mind, is admit what you're really doing!"

"That's enough!"

As Fudge made to stand, his hand coming up to signal the guards, a new voice spoke up from the shadows of the upper tiers. "Wait, Cornelius."

Heads swiveled to look up at the source of that voice, and, to Harry's surprise, Alastor Moody lumbered to his mismatched feet.

"Mr. Potter is right on several counts. He came here as a witness for Malfoy's defense, which gives him the right to speak out on the boy's behalf. He has been accused of several crimes, all of them relating to Malfoy and to the charges at hand, which puts him in the dock as well. He and Dumbledore have offered evidence to this court that we have yet to see. Why are we even discussing such a drastic and violent step as forcing Veritaserum on a mentally incapacitated boy, when we have evidence in front of us that could condemn or clear him without it?"

Moody glared at Fudge with both his eyes, making the Minister blanch, and added, fiercely, "It does begin to sound as though our esteemed Minister of Magic is more interested in degrading Malfoy than in trying him for his supposed crime."

Before Fudge could answer, Narcissa rose majestically to her feet and declared, "I will not allow the administering of Veritaserum to my son, but neither will I condone the use of the Pensieve."

"You are not being asked to condone anything, my dear Narcissa," Dumbledore said, at his mildest and most dangerous. "This is a courtroom. The court will decide what measures are taken."

"The court is letting itself be nose-led by a senile old man and an arrogant child!"

"I'm not a child," Harry snarled, "and neither is Draco! He's sixteen years old, old enough to make his own decisions and choose his own loyalties. He chose to stand and fight with Dumbledore and with me, _against_ Voldemort. And whether or not you like it, Mrs. Malfoy, it was _his_ choice – not mine, not Dumbledore's, and _not yours!_"

"How dare you speak to me in such a way?"

"How dare you – how dare _any_ of you," he added, glaring around at the stony faces of the wizards confronting him, "try to take Draco away from Professor Dumbledore, when Dumbledore is the only person in the wizarding world with the courage to stand up to Voldemort? He promised every student at Hogwarts his protection, if they chose to stay with him. Dumbledore doesn't discriminate between Death Eaters' sons and your children. He protects _everybody_. And you're all plenty happy that he's got your children safe at the castle. You'd never think of taking one of your own sons away, handing him over to the Dark Lord, because you didn't like who he was sleeping with! But you'll do it to Draco, because he's a _Malfoy_, and we all know that Malfoys aren't worth protecting!"

A hand fell on Harry's shoulder, and Dumbledore's voice sounded softly in his ear. "All right, Harry, sit down."

But Harry wasn't finished. "You're all hypocrites. You pretend to do what's right – offering the poor, sick junior Death Eater a trial instead of just tossing him in Azkaban – but all you really want is to humiliate both of us so much that I'll slink off and hide at Hogwarts, leaving Draco with no one to fight for him. Then you'll get your hero back, a little dirty but still usable, and the world will be rid of one more Malfoy. The only problem is, it won't work. I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not letting you take Draco anywhere until you know what really happened!"

"We are trying to determine what happened, Potter," Amos Diggory interjected, his face twisted with a mixture of embarrassment, distaste and kindness. "If you'd let us get on with it…"

Harry faced him squarely and made a heroic effort to keep the disdain from his voice. "How, Mr. Diggory? By drugging Draco and asking him about his love life?"

"You will admit that Malfoy's, er, state of mind at the time of the killing is important."

"Yes, I admit that, but Dumbledore's given you a better way to find that out. Better than drugging him, when he's in no condition to give his permission."

"We don't need his permission," Fudge said.

Harry turned a cold look on him and asked, stiffly, "What would you do, Minister, if this court tried to force your wife to drink Veritaserum, so they could ask her how she _really_ feels about you?" A gasp of outrage and amusement rippled through the audience. "Would you just sit there and let it happen? Listen to her describe what a night with you is like?"

Fudge's mouth dropped open and his eyes nearly popped from his head. "The impertinence…" he spluttered. "How dare you? The gall!"

"Yes, that's what I thought. It does take a lot of gall to do that to someone, especially someone who can't speak up for himself."

Fudge was rapidly turning a violent shade of purple, as his lips worked in an effort to frame the most cutting, devastating, shattering reprimand ever heard within these walls. But before he could deliver this killing blow, Kingsley Shacklebolt rose to his feet and cleared his throat. Once again, every head swiveled to look at the speaker.

He nodded pleasantly to all the staring faces and fixed a mild, questioning eye on Fudge. "Can anyone suggest a method by which the contents of the Pensieve might be falsified?"

An uncomfortable silence answered him.

"I thought not. We are basing all of this on the supposition that Dumbledore has, somehow, falsified evidence and placed it in the Pensieve, but it seems to me that this is a patently foolish idea. Leaving aside the question of whether or not we honestly believe Albus Dumbledore would torment a child into madness and force him to commit murder, the fact is that no one ever _has_ tampered with memories in a Pensieve. No one can suggest _how_ it might be done."

Turning to sweep the upper tiers with his gaze, he said, "I respectfully suggest that we watch the memories in the Pensieve before we decide what other measures are needed. If, when that is done, you still feel that Malfoy's actions are suspect, you can then do as you see fit."

"Aye," Diggory growled, "let's have done with arguing and see what Dumbledore's got."

A low murmur answered him, growing in volume until it was a shouted chorus of assent. Fudge sat rigidly in his chair, eyes straight ahead and face flushed. After a long minute, during which the calls from the Wizengamot grew steadily louder, he raised his hand for quiet. The sound died quickly.

"Very well. Show us your evidence, Dumbledore."

Harry stepped hurriedly forward, cutting off the mutters of approval from the audience. "Please, Minister, wait!"

Fudge's eyes glittered coldly at him. "What now, Potter?"

"Please don't make Draco watch this."

"Mr. Malfoy will see the evidence along with this court."

Harry swallowed his anger and kept his voice reasonable, polite, undemanding. "What happened to him," he waved toward the Pensieve, "in there is what did this to him in the first place. Made him… the way he is. I don't think he could stand to watch it all again."

"Potter's right," Madam Fox cut in. "You could do the boy irreparable harm."

Fudge stared at Harry, eyes narrowed, searching for some trick in his request. Finally, he nodded. Waving a hand at the guards, he said, "Take Malfoy to the holding room. Put a binding hex on him, if he so much as twitches."

"May I go with him?" Harry asked. "I'd rather not watch it, either."

Another long, burning stare, then Fudge flung out his hand and snapped, "Your wand, Potter."

Harry pulled his wand from his robes and laid it on Fudge's outstretched palm.

"You may not hold private conversation with Malfoy. You may not touch him." Fudge's lip lifted in disgust. "And you will have three armed wizards with you at all times. Now, get out and let us get on with our business."

Harry stood quietly beside Draco's chair, his hands pointedly shoved in his pockets, while the guards tapped the chains that held Draco to loosen them and hauled him to his feet. Draco moved as dully and obediently as always, but as they turned him toward the back of the pit and the door, his blank gaze passed over Harry's face and he hesitated. Awareness flashed in his eyes for a moment.

"Are we going home, now?"

Harry exerted all his self control to keep his face neutral under all those hostile glares. "Not yet, Draco." He tried to smile for the other boy's benefit and moved toward the door, motioning for Draco to follow him. "Come on. We'll go someplace quiet to wait."

"Wait for what?" Draco asked, as he fell into step between his guards.

"Dumbledore."

Draco accepted this without a blink. In a moment, they were outside the courtroom and moving down the dark, underground passage. Harry did not speak to Draco again, until one of the guards opened a heavy door and ushered them into a small, dreary, rather threadbare room with a couple of candles on the table that looked as though they'd been chewed by rats. The first guard through the door lit them with his wand, while the second steered Draco over to a chair and pushed him into it and the third bolted the door behind them.

Harry pulled another chair up close to Draco's, ignoring the sideways looks of the guards, and plunked into it. A cloud of dust rose from the frayed upholstery, making him sneeze.

Draco looked around dazedly for a moment, then said, "There are no windows."

"No. We're underground."

His pale face, which had remained completely placid through so much unpleasantness, now tightened in distress. "Not underground." His arms came up to rest on the arms of the chair, and his right hand fastened around the wood with sudden force. "I don't like it here."

"I'm sorry, but we can't leave yet. We have to wait for Dumbledore."

"No!" Harry saw that his hand was shaking in spite of its grip on the chair arm. "Not here!"

"Calm down, Draco. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Harry!"

"It's all right." Sliding out of the chair, Harry landed on his knees directly in front of Draco. The grey eyes, which had remained vacant and unknowing for so many days, were now startlingly alert but so stricken with fear that their gaze wrenched at Harry. They fixed on Harry's face, and Harry moved instinctively to answer the pleading in them. He reached up to cover Draco's hand with his own.

"Potter…" one of the guards said, warningly.

At the sound of his voice, Draco retreated visibly, his eyes clouding and the life draining from his face. Harry shot the guard a furious glare, then turned away without bothering to speak to him. He caught Draco's eyes again and held them with his own, and very subtly, so the guards wouldn't notice, he sent out a thread of power through their joined hands toward the damaged boy.

"It's all right," he said, again. "Don't go away, Draco, please. Don't leave me here alone."

Draco said nothing, but the traces of golden fire in his eyes seemed to melt the ice, bring them into clearer focus, and deepen the fear in them at the same time.

Harry stared intently at him, trying to understand what it was about this room that frightened him so much. What had Draco noticed first? That it had no windows? Then he had panicked when Harry told him they were underground… Of course, Harry thought. His prison beneath the Giants' Dance was underground and had no windows. No windows meant no view of the sky. He wanted stars.

"Draco, you told me something once," he said gently, evenly, his fingers tightening about the other boy's. "You told me that I always make you see stars. Do you remember that?"

Draco stiffened, his gaze sliding away from Harry's.

"No, look at me. Look at me, Draco."

Very slowly, as if some terrible force were trying to hold him back, Draco obeyed the firm command in Harry's voice. His eyes tracked to Harry's face again and rested there.

"You can remember. It's safe to remember, I promise. Just think about us, together, on the Quidditch pitch. You and me. All alone. It's dark, and the stars are coming out. You like the stars; you want to look at them, be close to them. We climb on my broom and fly up to the top of the North Tower, where you can almost touch them they're so big and so bright. We lie there together and look at them – just you and me and all those stars. And you're happy, Draco. We're both _happy_."

His voice faded gradually to a lilting murmur, filling the air with subtle power and warmth. "All of that happened. It's real. And what you said to me is real. I can't take you up to the Tower now, but I can make you see stars, if you'll just look at me and not be afraid. Look at me. We're flying under the stars, and they're shining like adamant on velvet. Just for you."

Harry had no idea how long he knelt there. The guards did not make a sound, and Draco had fallen utterly still, his face relaxed and his eyes dreamy. Harry himself, exerting all his powers of persuasion and a bit of wizarding power into the bargain, was so absorbed in what he was doing that he might have stayed there all day without noticing. Then a rap sounded on the door, and the nearest guard moved to answer it, breaking the spell that held them all.

Harry climbed stiffly to his feet, as the guard threw the bolt and swung the heavy door open. He kept one hand on Draco's wrist, in open defiance of Fudge's orders, and a trickle of power flowing between them to strengthen Draco. Percy Weasley stood outside the door, looking straight at the nearest guard and studiously ignoring the two boys.

"Mr. Malfoy is needed in the dungeon," he said, stiffly.

Harry's stomach contracted painfully. "It's over?"

Percy did not acknowledge him but kept his eyes fixed on the guard. "Smartly, now. The Minister is waiting."

The guards closed in around Draco, forcing Harry to fall back, and marched him out of the room between them. They walked down the musty corridor in silence until they reached the last turning. There, Dumbledore stood with his shoulders propped against the wall, his head down and his eyes hooded.

Percy threw him one hostile glance and waved the guards on toward the lower door. Then he continued up the curving passage, headed for his place on the Minister's bench.

Harry waited until Percy had moved out of earshot, then he leaned close to Dumbledore and hissed, "What's going to happen? What did they decide?"

"I don't know," Dumbledore answered, calmly. "I was asked to step out while they deliberated."

"But they saw what was in the Pensieve?"

"They saw all of it. And they believed it, Harry." He squeezed Harry's shoulder, comfortingly. "They believed it."

Harry closed his eyes for a moment against a sickening wave of relief. "No Veritaserum?" he gasped.

"We shall see."

Harry had to be content with that. They had arrived at the door to the dungeon, and a guard held it open for them.

They filed through the door in silence. As he stepped into the dungeon, Harry scanned the tiers of benches above him, hoping to find some indication of what he could expect in the massed faces, but the only ones he could see very clearly were in the first row of benches, and they were all Fudge's minions. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Iphigenia Fox and the other nameless witch were gone. So was Narcissa Malfoy, Harry noticed, and he wondered what that meant for Draco.

Unwilling to let the Ministry wizards separate him from Draco again, he followed the guards over to the great chair in the center of the floor and stationed himself just behind it. The guards pushed Draco into the chair. One of them raised his wand to summon the chains, but Fudge forestalled him with a wave of his hand.

Rising to his feet with the air of one about to do something highly regrettable but unavoidable, Fudge struck a pose and cleared his throat. "Draco Malfoy, after viewing the evidence provided by Albus Dumbledore, this court finds that you are guilty of using an Unforgivable Curse and of taking the life of another wizard."

Harry gaped at Fudge, too shocked even to protest, and for a sickening moment he feared his heart had forgotten how to beat. Then Madam Bones' exasperated voice reached him, and his heart started again with a painful lurch.

"Oh, give over, Cornelius. You're going to send Potter off in an apoplexy if you keep this up. Just tell him what we've decided and put the poor boy out of his misery."

Fudge turned an unattractive shade of purple that clashed with his robe. "It is the opinion of this court that Draco Malfoy was not in his right mind when he committed the crimes in question. There is no doubt that he _did_ use the Avada Kedavra curse to murder his father…"

A rumble of discontent sounded from the benches behind him, and Fudge ground out from between clenched teeth, "But the evidence of Malfoy's own memories confirms that it was a plain case of self-defense, and that the boy was in no condition to understand the gravity of his actions. He is therefore cleared of all charges."

Harry gave cry of relief and took a hasty step toward Draco, only to be pulled up short by Fudge's cold voice.

"_However_." Harry stopped and turned dark, challenging eyes on the Minister. Fudge pretended to ignore him. "The boy's condition makes him a danger to himself and to others. That much is clear. He cannot be turned loose to attack any innocent person he sees as a threat."

"You're not going to give him to his mother!" Harry blurted out.

Fudge glared at him and said, icily, "If you _please_, Mr. Potter._ I_ am presiding over this court and _I_ will deliver the court's verdict."

"Then why don't you do it?" Madam Bones snapped. She then turned a mild gaze on Harry and said, "No, we aren't going to hand him over to Narcissa. What we saw in the Pensieve proves that she's been lying through her teeth and is probably in cahoots with You-Know-Who into the bargain. We're not all of us _quite_ as shortsighted as the Minister, here, and we wouldn't hand a sick boy over to that lot, even if his name _is_ Malfoy."

"Amelia! Do you mind!"

She smiled wickedly at Fudge and nodded, as if granting her permission for him to continue.

"As I was saying," Fudge went on, stiffly, "Malfoy cannot be allowed to run amuck in his current state."

Every eye in the room turned instinctively to look at Draco, weighing Fudge's words against the reality of that small, still, blank-faced boy. Someone, high up in the shadows, gave a derisive snort.

The mood in the room obviously nettled Fudge, and he snapped, with all vestiges of formal dignity gone, "Oh, very well! Since you all seem to think this is some sort of parlor game, instead of a criminal trial! The boy is your responsibility, Albus. They've appointed you his guardian, which means it's on _your_ head if he cracks up and kills someone else!"

Dumbledore smiled widely up at the Minister. "A very wise decision, Cornelius. I knew I could rely on you to keep your head." Amelia guffawed loudly at that, and Dumbledore gave her a twinkling look. "Now, if that's all, Minister…"

Fudge turned away, preparing to leave, and flipped a contemptuous hand at the group on the floor. "Get him out of here."

Harry did not wait for more. Springing forward, he elbowed one of the guards out of his way and bent over Draco. At the touch of Harry's hand on his shoulder, Draco looked up at him, and Harry smiled through a sudden sheen of tears.

"Come on, Draco. We're going home."

"Home?"

"Yes, to Hogwarts."

Harry pulled gently on his arm, and he stood up. His face wore its closed, vacant look, but he had not completely withdrawn. There was recognition in his eyes when he looked at Harry. Above them, the members of the Wizengamot were rising from their seats, milling about, muttering among themselves as they made for the upper exits, and Harry could feel their curious gazes on him, but he didn't care. He looped an arm behind Draco's shoulders and pulled the smaller boy close to his side. Then he bent his head and rested his cheek against Draco's hair for a blissful moment.

"We're going home."

Together, they walked out of the dungeon.

**_To be continued…_**


	11. Crucio

**Author's Note:** My deepest thanks to all of you who wrote to me, asking for the new chapter, keeping me focused and inspiring me to shake of my lethargy and _write_. And thanks, as well, for all your reviews and comments! This chapter was dragged, kicking and screaming, from the darkest recesses of my brain. But it did see daylight at last, and my obsession with re-re-rewriting it paid off when I finally found The Zone and got it right (at least, I hope it's right!).

I thank you for your patience, and I hope you find the chapter worth the wait! Enjoy…

-- Claire

* * *

**Chapter 10: _Crucio_**

They had not reached the first turning in the corridor when Dumbledore caught them up. He held the box with the Pensieve in one hand and Harry's wand in the other.

"You mustn't hurry off without this, my boy," he said, eyes twinkling, as he gave the wand to Harry. "You may well need it."

The smile in Dumbledore's voice seemed to contradict the warning in his words, and Harry was not in a mood to worry, so he grinned as he tucked the wand into his robes. Then he followed Dumbledore up the curving hallway to where a long, dark flight of steps led up to the next level. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody and Arthur Weasley were coming down the steps toward them, Shacklebolt in the lead with the chest that held Draco's hand tucked under his arm. All three wizards looked unaccountably serious, and Harry felt his high spirits sink a bit. His hold on Draco's shoulders tightened instinctively.

"Narcissa Malfoy left in the middle of the show," Kingsley said at once, without wasting time on greetings or congratulations. "I couldn't follow without drawing undue attention to myself."

"Do you have any idea how long she's been gone?" Dumbledore asked.

"Nearly an hour."

Dumbledore frowned at that.

"She went straight to the Atrium and flooed out," Moody informed him, swiveling his magic eye just in case anyone wondered how he'd managed to track Narcissa's movements from inside the dungeon.

"Flooed to where, I wonder?" Dumbledore mused.

"If she has a grain of sense, she's packing her bags and planning a long holiday," Mr. Weasley said.

"Were the Wizengamot of a mind to bring charges against her, do you think?"

"Some of them undoubtedly were. I don't know when I've seen Amelia Bones so angry."

"If I were Narcissa, I'd be more worried about Lucius' friends," Moody growled, his face contorted in a fearsome smile.

Dumbledore looked more thoughtful still. He said nothing for a long moment, simply gazing into the middle distance with his lips pursed, while the other wizards exchanged meaningful glances. Then, abruptly, Dumbledore said, "Harry, why don't you and Draco wait for me up by the lift? I won't be long."

Harry's stomach did an unpleasant flip. "Is something wrong, Professor?"

"Not at all. I have a few things to discuss with Alastor and Kingsley, and I think we needn't be in any rush to leave. Half the Wizengamot must still be gathered in the Atrium, discussing the trial."

"You mean, hoping for a glimpse of the Famous Harry Potter and his mad Malfoy lover," Harry said, glumly.

Dumbledore clapped him on the shoulder, his eyes full of sympathy. "Certainly they want a glimpse of you. Today you reminded them what kind of hero you are."

"One who can't hold his temper?"

"One who wins his battles. Go on, Harry. Go ring for the lift. I'll be with you in a few minutes."

Harry started up the stairs without further argument, Draco still beside him. As he climbed, he reflected on Dumbledore's words and hoped that the old wizard was right. He had won a hard victory today, and it would be nice to think that he had won over some of the wizarding world in the process. But whatever else he had or hadn't gained, Harry _had_ won. He had stood up to the entire Wizengamot, made a fool of Fudge, out-maneuvered Dolores Umbridge, and even managed to keep his dignity intact under all those hateful stares and muttered insults. And most importantly, he had rescued Draco.

A smile spread over his face, as he thought of Fudge's impotent rage when forced to turn Draco over to Dumbledore. He tightened his arm about Draco's shoulders, leaned down until his head rested against the other boy's, and murmured, "Did you see his face? He looked like he'd just swallowed a dung bomb. Serves him right, the stupid git."

Harry didn't expect an answer, so he felt no more than a small twinge of regret when he didn't receive one. He tried to imagine what Draco – an alert, laughing, caustic Draco – would have to say about Fudge and this whole business with the Wizengamot, but that made the twinge turn into a stabbing pain beneath his ribs, and he hastily pushed the thought aside.

The two boys reached the upper level and walked together down the corridor in silence. At the far end, torches burned in iron brackets along a row of grilles, each with a dark, gaping space behind it that seemed to swallow the light. Down here, the lift gates were not the shiny golden things Harry had seen upstairs. They were tarnished and rather grimy, as though no one had bothered to polish them, or even wipe off the dust, in years. The first button he pushed made a grinding noise and stuck halfway in. Harry grimaced at it and moved farther down the row 'til he found another call button.

This one worked. Harry could hear a lift, somewhere far above them, begin to creak and groan its way down the long shaft to the dungeon. Guessing that he had a bit of a wait, he stepped back to prop himself against the wall and, absently, looped both his arms around Draco. The other boy obediently leaned into him but did not look up when Harry rubbed his cheek lightly against his hair. Closing his eyes, Harry savored the bittersweet pleasure of having Draco close to him, of inhaling Draco's scent, of feeling Draco breathing softly, even if the Draco he loved was not really here at all.

They were still standing together when Mr. Weasley came hurrying down the corridor toward them. He broke stride at the sight of Harry with his arms around Draco, but then recovered and approached with a smile firmly in place.

"All right, then, Harry?" he asked, brightly.

"We're fine, Mr. Weasley. Is Dumbledore coming?"

"He'll be along in a moment." Mr. Weasley peered up the shaft from which the noises were loudest, then nodded to himself. "I just came ahead to see how you'd managed with the lift."

"All I had to do was push the button," Harry remarked, dryly.

"Ah, but there's no telling which ones actually work. It's a disgrace, really." He clasped his hands behind his back and bounced up on his toes, still smiling a bit too determinedly. "Perkins was stuck down here for an entire day, once. Finally got out when he sent up a fountain of sparks from his wand, and someone in the Atrium spotted it. Poor fellow. Never was very good with buttons and switches and the like."

"What's he doing in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, then?" Harry asked.

"Er, well," Mr. Weasley cleared his throat and bounced on his toes again, his ears turning a vivid shade of pink, "it was the only place they could find for him, after the accident."

"Accident?"

"_He_ claimed it was an accident, anyway, but the Magical Reversal Squad took a dim view of the whole affair. They stuck him in Misuse of Muggle Artifacts as the place where he could get into the least trouble. All this was before my time, of course."

Harry was startled by a sudden, distant crack. Even muffled by stone walls, he recognized the sound instantly and turned to Mr. Weasley in surprise. "I didn't know you could apparate inside the Ministry."

"Apparate? Why, certainly you can. It's not particularly good form to do it in crowded buildings, when you never know who you might land on, but we all cheat a little now and then. I expect that was old Mad-Eye Moody, off in a rush as usual."

"Oh." Harry looked curiously at the long row of lifts, then at Mr. Weasley. "You don't have to wait here with us, if you're in a hurry."

"Not at all. I have nowhere in particular to be."

Harry was spared comment on this by the simultaneous arrival of Dumbledore and the lift. The Headmaster herded them all into the lift and punched a large, gold button stamped with an ornate A. He filled the short trip to the next level with inconsequential remarks about needing to get home to clean Fawkes' perch, but Harry thought that he looked a bit preoccupied, and the twinkle in his eyes was notably absent. When they reached Level Eight, he swept Harry and Draco out of the lift, then turned back to Mr. Weasley.

"You will let Molly know how the trial went, won't you?"

"Yes." Mr. Weasley's ears turned pink again. "Yes, of course."

"Have her send Harry's things to the school, and give her my apologies for missing dinner." Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to answer, then shut it awkwardly, and Dumbledore smiled in understanding. "Thank you for your support today, Arthur. It meant a lot to me, and I'm sure to Harry as well."

"Yes," Harry said, quietly. "Thank you."

Mr. Weasley shot Harry a rather wan smile. "Is there anything you want me to say to Molly, when I see her?"

Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, then he shook his head.

Mr. Weasley seemed to droop before his eyes, even his bright hair dimming perceptibly. With a resigned shrug, he reached to push the button for his level and said, wistfully, "Look after yourself, my boy."

The lift shuddered into motion, rising toward the paneled ceiling and carrying Mr. Weasley out of sight. Dumbledore caught Harry's arm and drew him toward the gates that let into the Atrium. They had not taken three steps when Harry heard the distinctive crack of someone apparating. It seemed that Mr. Weasley was in a hurry, after all.

Harry paused at the security desk to hand in his visitor's badge, ignoring the frozen look on the face of the wizard seated there, then hurried after Dumbledore. They walked the length of the hall under the eyes of countless witches and wizards, all of whom fell quiet as Dumbledore approached with the two boys. Harry held tightly to Draco's hand, kept his head high and refused to look directly at any of the staring faces, but he caught glimpses of many people he knew, including a fair proportion of the Wizengamot in their purple robes.

"Potter!"

Harry turned at the sound of his name to see Amos Diggory break away from a crowd of purple-robed wizards by the fountain and stride toward him. Dumbledore halted, allowing Diggory to catch them up. Diggory threw Draco a dubious glance as he approached, then fixed his eyes resolutely on Harry.

"Hallo, Mr. Diggory," Harry said, politely.

"Headed back to Hogwarts, then?" he asked, rather pointlessly Harry thought.

"Yes."

"Good. Good." His eyes slid away from Harry for a moment, betraying his discomfort. "Quite the show Dumbledore gave us in there – Lucius and the Giants' Dance and all. Quite the eye-opener. Narcissa, too. Wouldn't have thought it of the boy's mother."

Harry could think of nothing to say, so he looked steadily at Mr. Diggory and waited for him to finish.

"Ceddie always thought highly of you, Potter. Always said you were a trump."

This seemed to call for some response. Harry muttered incoherent thanks, bringing a swift, melancholy smile to Mr. Diggory's face.

"I reckon he'd have liked what you did today. Put us all in our place. Told us what was what." Diggory's face turned pink, but whether with embarrassment at the admission he was making or at pleasure in thinking of Cedric's approval Harry could not tell. "Cedric would have been right there with you, if he knew what kind of rubbishing thing we were trying to do. Right beside you, telling his old dad not to be such a berk. He was a great gun, my Ceddie, as brave and as true as they come."

"Yes, sir, he was," Harry said.

"Well." Mr. Diggory cleared his throat noisily and looked to Dumbledore with a hint of defiance in his stance. "You'll look after them at Hogwarts, eh? See to it that You-Know-Who can't touch them?"

"I will, Amos."

Diggory nodded in satisfaction and stepped back. Dumbledore gestured for Harry to follow and started for the telephone box at the far end of the room.

"And keep an eye out for Narcissa!" Diggory called after them. "Tricky, that one! No telling what she'll do!"

Dumbledore nodded and waved but did not slow his steps. He reached the dilapidated red telephone box standing at the far end of the room well ahead of Harry and Draco, who could not match his long-legged stride without running. Pulling the door open, he waited for the boys to join him, and then gestured for them to step inside.

"This contraption isn't made to hold three people. You two go on up first, and I'll follow along in a moment."

Harry moved into the box and crowded to the back until he felt the broken telephone dig into his spine, then he tugged on Draco's hand to draw him inside. Draco hesitated, balking at the sight of the cramped, shadowed interior.

"In you go, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, gently, and he propelled Draco across the threshold with a hand in the middle of his back. "You'll find Professor Moody waiting for you on the street, Harry."

Dumbledore shut the door, and the lift immediately lurched upward. Draco staggered, falling into Harry. Harry put an arm around his waist to steady him, and he felt Draco's whole frame vibrating with tension. At the touch of Harry's body against his, he stiffened.

"Relax, Draco. It's only a lift."

Draco looked around in alarm, his eyes showing too much white as he stared out the cracked, scarred window panes. "Harry?"

"I'm right here."

"Where are we going?"

"Relax. It's okay."

They were rising swiftly into the ceiling, darkness sweeping down the windows and cutting off the golden light from the Atrium. Harry caught a last glimpse of Draco's eyes, now glazed with panic, before the blackness swallowed them up. A hand fastened in the front of Harry's robe.

"Harry!"

"Just hold on," Harry murmured soothingly.

"No. Out…" Draco tried to step back, only to find himself wedged into the corner of the box. With a gasp of fear, he let go of Harry's robe and lashed out at the nearest wall, striking metal and glass. "Let me out!"

Harry reached blindly for him, but Draco's left arm caught him a staggering blow to the side of the head, knocking him back against the telephone. Then he heard an ominous crunch, as Draco hurled himself bodily against the side f the box.

"Stop it," Harry cried. "You'll hurt yours…"

"_Let me out!_"

There was another crunch, and shards of glass splintered on the floor. Draco gave an eerie, wordless cry that set Harry's teeth on edge and galvanized him into action. He pushed himself hard out of the corner, collided with Draco, and wrapped his arms around the other boy. Draco continued to struggle, but Harry tightened his hold and lifted the smaller boy's feet from the floor.

"Stop. It's me, Draco. It's Harry."

Draco uttered another wordless cry and twisted in Harry's arms, trying desperately to break free, driving his elbow into Harry's mouth.

Harry's head snapped back and his teeth sank into his lip, filling his mouth with blood, but he did not let go. Through the tears of pain swimming in his eyes, he could see a thin line of daylight at the very top of the windows. They were almost there. He only had to hold Draco for another few seconds.

The strip of grey light widened, and suddenly, Harry could see again. As a shaft of sunlight touched his face, Draco shuddered and went nerveless in Harry's arms. Harry set him carefully on his feet but kept both arms around him for support. Draco was staring fixedly at the growing patch of grey light, his face a white, wild mask and his eyes looking blind in the sudden brightness. His hand was smeared with blood, and more blood stained the shards of glass around their feet.

Harry pulled him a little closer and bent down to murmur, "See? It's the sky. We're almost there."

"Let me go. I can't breathe."

"Yes you can."

"Harry…"

"Shh. Hold on for just another minute."

The lift jolted to a stop. Harry saw a lumpy figure just outside the door, its outlines distorted by the pitted, scarred glass – Professor Moody waiting for them. Draco either did not see or did not care. He stared out the empty window frame to his left, breathing hard and shaking in reaction.

A cool, feminine voice spoke out of the air. "Thank you for visiting the Ministry of Magic. Please check for Muggles before you exit the lift, and have a pleasant day."

"It's over. We're here." Harry reached past Draco to push the door open.

Professor Moody's grotesquely scarred face glared in at the two boys, his normal eye pinned to Harry's face while his magical one skittered and jumped about so madly that it made Harry's stomach churn to look at it. Just behind him, rumbling and steaming at the curb, was the Knight Bus.

"Took you long enough," Moody barked. Then his eye narrowed in suspicion. "What happened to you, Potter?"

Harry touched his lip gingerly. His fingers came away sticky. "Uh, nothing. An accident. Go on out, Draco. It's just Professor Moody."

When Draco did not move fast enough to suit him, Moody reached into the telephone box and grabbed him by the arm. He pulled Draco outside and shoved him toward the bus, remarking caustically to Harry, "Trust you and Malfoy to get into trouble in a _lift_." He plucked at Draco's sleeve and hoisted his bleeding hand into view. "Another accident, was it?"

With a casual gesture that expressed his disgust with sixteen-year-old wizards in general and the famously accident-prone Harry Potter in particular, Moody flicked his wand at Draco's hand. The wand emitted a stream of red sparks, and the cuts vanished. Then he did the same for Harry's lip, and in a matter of seconds, there was no sign left of Draco's outburst but a stain on the Slytherin's white cuff and some bloodied glass on the floor of the telephone box.

"Stand about on the street like that and you're likely to get yourself hexed," Moody growled, as he stumped over to the bus. "Serve you right, the pair of you. Come on. Move."

Harry didn't know who Moody thought would be lurking outside the Ministry of Magic to hex them, but he didn't stop to ask. Catching Draco's arm, he hurried across the pavement toward the bus, climbing the steps under Moody's gimlet eye. Stan Shunpike was hovering just inside the bus, goggling at Harry as if he'd never seen the like of him before.

"Blimey," Stan exclaimed, "it's 'Arry Potter!"

"Hullo, Stan."

"Look 'ere, Ern, 'oo d'you think it is? 'Arry Potter and that other blighter, the barmy one. I seen 'is picture in the paper – supposed to be in Azkaban. Wot's 'e doin' with you, 'Arry?"

"Read about it in tomorrow's paper," Harry snapped. Shouldering his way past Stan, he led Draco down the center aisle to the first seat that looked remotely comfortable – a sagging armchair covered in hideous orange and yellow checked upholstery. Draco obeyed the gentle push Harry gave him and sat down in the chair. His eyes moved to the window beside him and stayed there, staring blankly at the rain-washed street. Harry took the seat immediately behind Draco's.

It seemed that they were the only passengers on the bus this morning, a fact which struck Harry as odd. He had never seen the Knight Bus empty before. It looked dilapidated and forlorn with nothing but a collection of mismatched chairs in it and half-melted candles slumped in the wall brackets. Someone had left a muddy boot under a wrought iron park bench father down the bus, and there was a wad of chewing gum stuck on one of the crystal drops of the chandelier. As he looked around and wondered where everyone had gone, Harry caught himself missing the old witch who smelled of onions, who had glared so angrily at him just yesterday.

Dumbledore's face appeared suddenly in the doorway, causing Stan to give a violent start.

"Blimey! The 'Eadmaster!" he exclaimed, eyes popping.

"Thank you, Stan," Dumbledore said, cheerfully, "it's always nice to be recognized. All safely aboard, I see."

Moody grunted wordless assent and clumped down the center aisle of the bus to a seat opposite Harry's. He had his wand in his hand and his magical eye still darting about in an unnerving way. Harry thought he seemed jumpier than usual, but it was very hard to tell with Professor Moody, since what he considered a normal state of vigilance another wizard would call raving paranoia.

Dumbledore waited until Moody was seated, then he patted Ernie on the shoulder and said, "To Hogwarts, if you please, Mr. Prang."

The Knight Bus lumbered slowly away from the curb, swaying alarmingly as it went, and began to pick up speed. Dumbledore set down the large box he carried – the one that held the Pensieve – and slid it under his chair next to the smaller chest Moody had already placed there. Then he sat down and gripped the chair arms tightly. Harry took the hint, catching hold of a candle bracket on the wall beside him and bracing himself only just in time.

BANG. The bus lurched violently, flinging empty chairs about and setting the chandelier to swinging. The two boxes slid from under Dumbledore's chair, sailed half the length of the bus, and fetched up against the park bench, which had overturned with a resounding crash. All four of the passengers managed to stay in their seats, but even Dumbledore looked a trifle shaken. Harry glanced out the window and saw that they were now speeding down the motorway.

Dumbledore retrieved the boxes and returned them to their place beneath his chair. After a moment's consideration, he pulled out his wand and cast a quick binding spell to hold them there.

"That ought to do the trick," he remarked, as he tucked his wand into his robe. "I live in the hope that Ernie will find a direct route to Hogwarts, just once in my lifetime, but I fear I am doomed to disappointment."

"Why does he jump around like that," Harry asked, "when we're the only passengers?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at Harry over the tops of his glasses. "I think Ernie's greatest pleasure in life is rattling his passengers about like boiled sweets in a tin. Either that, or he has an ambition to drive every street in Britain before he retires."

As if to prove Dumbledore's point, there came another shattering BANG. Harry grabbed at Draco's chair to keep it from tipping into his own lap, waited until the bus settled into a steady motion, then checked his pockets to make sure nothing had flown out of them.

"Still got your wand?" Moody demanded.

"Yes." Harry gripped his wand for reassurance and said, "Isn't there a more comfortable way to get home?"

"More comfortable, yes, but not as safe."

Harry looked around in surprise at the tumbled chairs and wildly swaying chandelier above his head, then turned skeptical eyes on Moody. "This is safe?"

"Depends on your point of view, doesn't it? Between You-Know-Who and that pack of bloody fools at the Ministry, it's gotten so a respectable wizard can't travel to the local pub without taking his life in his hands. Floo network's compromised; portkeys are restricted; and after what happened to Emmaline Vance last week…" Moody broke off and shook his head lugubriously.

"What happened?"

"Hit with a hex while apparating. First case of forcible splinching I've ever seen."

Harry's stomach did a slow, queasy roll. He'd never seen a wizard get splinched, but the word always conjured up gruesome pictures in his head. "Is she all right?"

"It was messy. Very messy."

"She's got all her pieces back, finally," Dumbledore assured him, "but it was a lesson in caution for all of us."

"How do you guard against a hex while you're apparating?"

"You can't. You can only gamble that your enemies will not catch you at that split second when you are completely vulnerable, and accept the risk that they might. But that is why none of us will be apparating with either you or Mr. Malfoy. We can't afford to gamble with your lives."

Harry pictured his own body scattered in bits over the streets of Hogsmeade and shuddered. Suddenly, the Knight Bus seemed a haven of security.

BANG.

Harry, caught unawares, pitched over backward, his head striking the floor hard enough to make him see stars. He pushed himself up on his elbows, noting as he did so that the bus was bouncing over uneven ground instead of pavement. Craning his neck to see out the window, he caught a glimpse of wooded hillsides.

Moody struggled out of a tangle of spilled chairs, his scarred face more contorted and grotesque than ever. "Where in blazes are we?!" he roared.

Stan, who clung like a monkey to a candle bracket, swaying easily with the motion of the bus, looked startled by his vehemence. "Stoppin' for a passenger. We was flagged…"

"The hell you are!" Moody leapt to his feet so quickly that Stan swallowed his own words in shock. "Get us out of here, Prang, _now!_"

Another tremendous jolt spilled Harry onto his back again, and for a breathless moment, he thought that Ernie had obeyed Moody's order. Then there came yet another bang, and the bus slewed wildly, tilting over onto two wheels. Stan shouted a question that was lost in the howl of tortured metal, Moody swore viciously, and the chandelier hit the side of the bus in a tinkling, snapping cascade of noise. Harry found himself flattened against the bus window, with Draco sprawled on top of him and the ugly armchair pinning both of them to the glass.

A terrible roaring and shrieking filled Harry's ears. He could see nothing but a blur of green and brown flying by the window on one side and the bulk of Draco's chair on the other. Then, suddenly, the bus lurched to a halt and the rumble of the engine died.

There was a moment of breathless stillness, then something struck the upended bus a tremendous blow that shook it from end to end. Stan whimpered in fear. A window somewhere above Harry shattered, and glass fell in a glittering rain about him. From outside, he heard a shrill, savage voice give a scream of laughter. It was a woman's voice – a voice Harry had heard before in a dark and evil place. Draco stirred and tried to push himself upright.

Suddenly the armchair went flying, and Moody's face appeared, framed against the broken windows and the cloudy, grey sky above.

"Up! _Move!_"

The Auror grabbed the back of Draco's robe and hauled him bodily off of Harry. Harry scrambled up to stare around the wrecked interior in shock. The bus lay on its side, chairs and benches in tangled heaps against the windows, the chandelier smashed into a great pile of crystal shards and lumps of candle wax. One chair remained stuck stubbornly to the floor, held in place by Dumbledore's binding spell and now jutting comically from what had become the side of the bus. The two boxes sat neatly between its legs.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Dumbledore asked. The Headmaster wore his cold, dangerous look, and the eyes that peered at Harry over the tops of a crooked pair of spectacles had no light in them at all.

Harry swallowed the lump of fear in his throat and rasped out, "Yes, but what happened?"

"We're under attack. You boys stay with Professor Moody and do exactly as he says. _Exactly_ as he says, Harry, do you understand? No heroics."

"I understand."

"I must see to our counterattack."

He did not give Harry time to ask what he meant but turned instantly away and scrambled over the spilled chairs to where Stan cowered with Ernie in the front of the bus.

Moody shoved Draco at Harry and growled, "Get your wand out, Potter, and keep track of Malfoy." The bus trembled under the force of another blast and nearly knocked Harry from his feet again. "We have to get out of this tin box."

Gripping his wand in one hand and Draco's arm in the other, Harry followed Moody toward the back of the bus. He could feel the tension building in Draco – in the rigidity of his arm and reluctance of his steps – and he pulled harder, urging him on faster, hoping to get him away from the bus before he came unglued again. He knew exactly what was bothering Draco. He had felt it himself, when he heard the voice of Bellatrix Lestrange howling with laughter. The noise, the confusion, the magic and madness filling the air… It was as if they had plunged back into the Pensieve, into Draco's memory of that night in the Giants' Dance, and even for Harry the effect was chilling.

Moody reached the rear window of the bus and turned to growl at Harry, "Don't stand there gawping! Cover your eyes."

Harry pulled Draco close, muffling the smaller boy's face in the hollow of his shoulder, then lifted his arm to protect his own face. In the next breath, he heard glass smashing, and a burst of power hit him hard enough to make him stagger.

"Come on, Potter, move!"

Harry dropped his arm to look. The rear window of the bus was gone. Moody straddled the empty frame, his wooden claw-foot dug into the churned-up dirt outside and his booted foot braced against a window frame on the wall-turned-floor of the bus. He held out a peremptory hand toward the boys. "Malfoy first."

Harry tried to push Draco forward, but at that moment, they heard another spell detonate, and Moody's face glowed green in the magical light. Draco recoiled, uttering a wordless growl of protest, and pressed himself back against Harry.

"Get him out here!" Moody hissed. Then he caught a glimpse of Draco's eyes, reading the mindless panic in them, and his anger died. With a muttered curse, he shot out his hand and grabbed the front of Draco's robe. "Sorry, boy, but we don't have time to be gentle."

One practiced heave, and Draco was through the window before he could resist. Moody dropped him unceremoniously on the ground, then reached back for Harry, who scrambled out as fast as he could manage, tearing his robe on the way.

The noise was much louder out here, and the burn of power in the air much stronger. Harry could now make out individual voices, including many that he knew, and he suddenly understood what Dumbledore had meant by "our counterattack." The Order had arrived to save them. Or to die with them.

"That's your mad Auntie Bella out there, boy," Moody remarked to Draco, as he hauled the Slytherin to his feet. "Your mum, too, I'd wager. Who else did they bring, eh? Just how badly do they want you?"

Draco gasped something unintelligible, writhing in Moody's grip. The old Auror shook him, none too gently, and snapped, "Quiet! Let me think." His magical eye flying in six directions at once, Moody muttered, "Stay behind the bus… head for the trees… Dumbledore will hold them, if we stay out of sight…"

A sudden, sickening wave of cold washed over them, choking off Moody's words and bringing Harry's heart up into his throat. All three of them froze, identical expressions of shock on their faces, as they each realized what new threat was upon them. Then Draco gave a breathless cry and tore himself out of Moody's grasp. He stumbled as he landed, put a hand to the ground for balance, and leapt to his feet, flinging himself toward the steep hill to their left and away from the creeping menace of the dementors.

"Draco!" Harry made a move to catch him, but the clinging despair of the dementors was upon him, blurring his vision, slowing his reflexes, and his fingers closed on empty air.

Draco did not slow his headlong pace at Harry's cry. He did not hesitate when Moody bellowed, "Not that way, you ruddy fool!" He simply fled in the one direction that took him farthest from the shouts, the flying spells and the terror of the dementors.

Without stopping to think of the risk he was taking or of Dumbledore's last instructions to him, Harry took off after Draco, running full tilt at the hillside. Draco was much quicker on his feet than Harry, but Harry's long legs served him well over such rough terrain, and he was gaining on the other boy when he heard an ominous _crack_ from behind him. Halting in mid-stride, he turned to look back.

From this vantage point, he could see the battle spread out beneath him. The bus lay at the end of a long, dark furrow carved in the earth by its slide, its nose buried in rocky hillock. The air around it was thick with smoke and an evil, roiling darkness, shot with multi-colored light. In the unnatural shadows breathed out by the dementors, he could not discern faces, but he saw at least half a dozen cloaked and hooded figures that he took to be Death Eaters. Others, many with their heads bared and dressed in their everyday clothes – caught unawares by Dumbledore's summons, he guessed – tried to keep the Death Eaters away from the crippled Knight Bus. More than one silvery Patronus circled the battlefield, herding dementors into a clump away from the fray. A flash of red hair betrayed the presence of at least one Weasley. Purple sparks marked the place where Dumbledore fought. And a great, black dog bounded through the chaos to leap upon a startled Death Eater, teeth bared.

One cloaked figure stood at the rear of the bus, stooping over Professor Moody's still body. Harry watched, paralyzed with horror, as the Death Eater straightened and turned to face him. It took a step away from Moody, toward Harry, and his limbs abruptly thawed. Spinning away from the chilling sight of Moody lying sprawled in the grass, his face stained with blood, Harry took off up the hill after Draco again, his feet lightened by his panic 'til he practically flew.

It was the Giants' Dance happening all over again. Death Eaters, dementors, curses flying, Draco running with Harry beside him and a fate worse than death following close on his heels. But this time, Harry was flesh and blood and right there with Draco. When he grabbed Draco's arm to urge him onward, his fingers touched living flesh. When he shouted at Draco to run, the other boy heard him.

Harry heard a rushing sound from behind and risked a glance over his shoulder. The Death Eater was gliding up the hill without touching the ground, looking so much like a dementor that the breath caught in his throat at the sight. Would a Patronus stop it? Harry wondered. Then the figure raised it's wand and fired a jet of green fire into the hillside just ahead of Harry's feet. He lurched to a stop and fell back a step, dragging Draco with him. Taking a firm grip on his wand and his courage, he turned.

She stood a few paces below him on a wide, flat rock. In her sweeping black cloak, with the hood lying about her shoulders and her pale hair glowing even in the eerie darkness, she looked like a queen. Or an angel. Her face was very different from her son's, and yet the same, with clean, fine bones showing beneath porcelain skin and fine brows arched disdainfully above remote eyes. But the eyes were blue, not grey, and Harry had learned not to trust the pain he saw in them. Narcissa Malfoy might suffer for her son, but she would not protect him.

She did not look at Harry but kept her eyes fixed on Draco. Harry threw him a swift glance as well, wondering how he would react to his mother's nearness, and saw him staring intently at her with the blind look in his eyes that Harry had come to associate with extreme distress. Draco was either about to snap, or he was going to withdraw so deep into himself that no one would ever find him. Not even Harry.

Narcissa held out her hand to her son. "Come, Draco. It is time to go."

Harry felt Draco's posture shift as he oriented on his mother, but he did not move.

She continued to gaze at him, her outstretched hand steady, demanding, irresistible. "Enough of this foolishness. The game is over, Draco. Come."

Draco took a step toward her. Harry's fingers bit hard into his arm, holding him back, and he obeyed the unspoken signal as readily as he had his mother's command.

"Take your hands off of him," Narcissa said, her voice still calm and insistent, but her lips drawn back in a snarl as her eyes cut over to Harry's face for the briefest moment.

"No." Harry stared her between the eyes, willing her to turn her full attention on him. "He's not going anywhere with you."

"Be careful what you do, Potter. There's no Dumbledore here to protect you."

Fury, hot and pure, flared up in Harry, and he almost laughed aloud at the sense of power it gave him. "I'm not afraid of you! I stopped your husband without Dumbledore's help, and I'll stop you, too!"

Draco's blind, unknowing eyes moved from Narcissa's face to Harry's, then back again, and he ventured another step down the hillside. "Mother," he murmured.

Triumph burned in Narcissa's eyes, and she raised her hand toward Draco again. "I'm here. Come to me, Draco, and I'll take you away from this creature. I'll take you where he can never touch you again."

"To Voldemort?" Harry demanded. "To the dementors? Will you stand and watch while they suck out his soul?"

A hiss of rage escaped her, and she jerked up her wand to point at Harry's face. "_Crucio_"

Harry lunged to one side, pulling Draco with him. But Draco, intent on his mother, only stumbled to his left, remaining stubbornly on his feet.

Harry saw it all happen with hideous clarity. He saw the curse burn the air, saw it strike Draco where he stood – in the exact spot that Harry had occupied half a second before – and saw it toss him through the air like a rag doll. Draco screamed as he fell, a dreadful, tearing, agonized scream that cut the thick air like a knife. Then he tumbled to the grass, his body drawing up into a helpless knot of pain. Harry stared at him in shock for the space of a breath, then he flung himself across the two feet that separated them, screaming Draco's name loudly enough to drown out the tortured sounds coming from the other boy's throat.

Just as he reached Draco, just as he lifted his shoulders from the grass and pulled him into his arms, Draco went suddenly limp. He lay brokenly across Harry's lap, his eyes closed, his face deathly white. Harry clutched him frantically to his chest and turned to glare at Narcissa.

She stood only a few paces away, her wand pointing straight up, and her face as ghastly pale as Draco's. "That was meant for you."

His lips worked for a moment, then he rasped out, "I know it."

As their gazes locked, and Harry read Draco's death in those implacable, despairing blue eyes, he came to an instantaneous decision. Once before he had hesitated. Once before he had thought that he did not have it in him to cause such excruciating pain to another human being, no matter what the circumstances. And the price for his hesitation had been Draco's hand. Well, Harry knew himself better now, and he knew that he would not ask Draco to pay for his weakness again.

In that cold, deadly place between one living, breathing moment and the next, Harry lifted his wand and spoke the forbidden word. And with all his hate, all his fear, all his gnawing guilt over what he had done to the person he loved most in this world behind it, the curse exploded out of him with terrible force.

"_Crucio_"

The blast of green light struck Narcissa square in the chest and hurled her backward. Her scream of agony went through Draco like an electric shock, and he shuddered in Harry's arms, uttering a formless cry of his own. Harry sobbed as he pulled Draco's head tightly against him, muffling his cries in the front of his robe, and he began to rock back and forth helplessly, overcome by horror and a pain he could neither voice or ease.

Narcissa cried out again. Draco seemed to convulse in Harry's arms. Harry bowed his head and closed his eyes so that he didn't have to look at either of them.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he groaned, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

A shadow loomed suddenly over them, and a familiar voice growled, "Steady on, Potter."

"Professor Moody!" Harry's head snapped up, and he stared into the scarred, inhuman face of the old Auror. "You're alive!"

Moody afforded him only a fleeting glance with his normal eye, then he waved over another wizard who followed close behind him. Harry recognized the flapping black robes, like crows' wings, and the sour face of Professor Snape. But oddly enough, when Snape swooped down on Draco and took his face between his hands, peering fiercely at him, Harry felt only gratitude and relief.

"Get them up, Severus. We're sitting ducks out here in the open."

Snape gave no answer, simply nodded and lifted Draco out of Harry's suddenly nerveless arms. Then he turned and started down the hill, stepping past Narcissa's shuddering body without a glance. Harry pushed himself to his knees and scrambled over to where Narcissa lay.

From behind him, Moody said, "On your feet, Potter. Get back to the bus."

"I hit her with the Cruciatus Curse," Harry gasped. From this close, he could see the awareness and the agony in Narcissa's face. She looked up at him, and the silent accusation in her eyes cut viciously through him. "How do I turn it off?"

"I'll take care of it."

"But…"

"Go, Potter. _Now_."

Tearing his eyes away from Narcissa's with an inward shiver of horror, Harry climbed to his feet. He could see Snape moving down the hill, and beyond him, the Knight Bus now teetering precariously on two wheels. A couple of wizards and an enormous figure in a moleskin coat that could only be Hagrid struggled to hoist the three-decker monstrosity upright. More wizards, all with silvery Patronuses milling about them, kept four dementors at bay in a small copse of trees some distance from the bus. Harry could not see the main battle, but he could hear the sound of it drifting up from somewhere behind the next hill and guessed that Dumbledore's forces had driven the Death Eaters into a fighting retreat.

Harry started down the hill at a run, skidding on the damp grass and bruising his feet on hidden stones. He caught up to Snape at the bottom of hill, just as Remus Lupin, Sturgis Podmore and Hagrid succeeded in right the bus. It settled onto its wheels with a wail of protesting springs, and Hagrid patted it fondly on one scratched, dented purple panel. Remus turned to Stan and Ernie, who huddled together a few feet away, watching the salvage operation with slack disbelief in their faces.

"Back on the bus, please, Ernie. Stan. We need you and the boys out of here as quickly as possible."

Stan gaped at Remus, his mouth opening and closing like beached fish, then sucked in his breath and declared, "I soddin' well won't!"

Hagrid crossed to the Conductor in two strides, grabbed him by the front of his purple jacket, and threw him bodily up the steps. "Yeh'll do as yer told, Shunpike, and yeh'll get Harry teh Hogwarts in one piece." He shot one bristling glare at Ernie, and the driver scrambled for the door of the bus without a word.

Hagrid stepped back to allow Snape and Harry to enter, his eyes dwelling curiously on the inert bundle of pale hair and black fabric in Snape's arms. Then he climbed the steps behind them and crowded into the interior of the bus.

Snape crossed to Dumbledore's chair – the only object in the bus still upright and in its proper place – and knelt beside it to lower his burden to the floor. His gestures were careful, even gentle, but his expression was black with rage. Harry dropped to his knees by Draco's head and watched in blank disbelief as Snape unfastened his cloak and spread it over the small, huddled form between them. His hand did not quite linger on Draco's shoulder. His eyes did not exactly soften. But Harry felt the deep, welling pain in him and suddenly wished that he could say something to comfort him.

Before Harry could act on this reckless impulse, Snape whirled on Ernie, teeth bared in a feral snarl, and growled, "Get us out of here!"

The engine rumbled to life. The bus leapt forward, bouncing several breathless feet from the ground when Ernie hit a small hillock without slowing. A curse, fired from some Death Eater's wand, struck the window just above Harry's head and broke into yellow sparks against its smooth surface.

BANG.

Everything was quiet, at last.

**_To be continued…_**


	12. Forget Me Not

**Author's Note:** Hello everyone! I know it's been an age since I updated, and I'll be surprised if any of you are still out there… waiting… patiently… g I truly am sorry, and for what it's worth, I think I can promise you that the remaining chapters will be quick in coming.

This one is mostly talking, not much action, but after two straight chapters of chaos and crisis, its time for our boys to have a rest. Well, not exactly _rest_, but at least a break from flying spells and attempts on their lives.

Thank you for your letters, reviews, and not-so-gentle nagging! I appreciate every word you have sent me! I hope you like the chapter…

- Claire

**Chapter 11: _Forget Me Not_**

Professor McGonagall had spent so much time in this wingback chair of late that she was beginning to feel a sort of proprietary attachment to it. She was perversely glad that she had managed to claim it today, before the mob of anxious, muttering wizards who had invaded the office could beat her to it. They were all conjuring stools or finding a piece of furniture to prop themselves against, saying little but conveying a vast deal of worry with their frowning looks. Minerva shared their worry, though she did not know exactly what had happened on the journey up from London, and she wished – not for the first time – that she could have spoken to Dumbledore alone.

Sinking back in the familiar flowered cushions, she eyed the man seated opposite her from beneath her lowered lashes. Snape looked dreadful, his normally sallow face white as chalk and his bitter black eyes sunk in shadows. He had not changed his robes since arriving so dramatically at the castle gates in a battered and scarred Knight Bus, with Malfoy an inert bundle in his arms and Potter haunting his steps in hollow-eyed shock. The black garments still stank of flame and magic.

From the moment she had opened the wards to let Severus and his charges through, Minerva had seethed with curiosity about the trial and its aftermath, but she still knew virtually nothing. First she had held her tongue because her students needed her, then out of concern for Severus himself, touched by the strange look in his eyes – a look she could not name and devoutly wished she could not see, either. Finally, they had come here to Dumbledore's office and settled into their usual places, but before she had the chance to ask her colleague a single question, most of the Order had descended upon them.

They were all waiting for Dumbledore to return with varying degrees of patience or detachment. Molly and Arthur Weasley sat on hastily-conjured stools, with their eldest, Bill, hovering behind them. Alastor Moody lurked in the shadows behind the desk, watching everyone darkly, as though he expected an ambush at any second. Sirius Black, his tall body folded into a window embrasure, scowled and picked at the torn leather of his boot like a sullen schoolboy. Remus Lupin stood by Fawkes' perch and murmured softly to the bird, playing at normalcy so he didn't have to acknowledge the crackling tension in the room. And Hagrid filled one whole section of the room, making the walls seem to shrink in on the rest of them. At least Kingsley Shacklebolt and Sturgis Podmore had taken themselves off to the Ministry. Minerva didn't think they could have scrounged up a bare bit of floor on which to park them, had they stayed.

Dumbledore slipped in the door and turned to lock it with a wave of his wand. A barrage of noise met his arrival, as half a dozen different questions were fired at him at once. His calm response silenced the racket and brought a grim smile to McGonagall's face.

"Would anyone like some tea?"

"No, Albus," Molly Weasley snapped, before he could get his backside in his chair, "we don't want tea. We want to know if Harry's all right!"

"Harry is fine." Dumbledore sat down with a barely audible sigh of weariness. "As fine as he can be, under the circumstances."

"Where is he?" Molly demanded.

Snape stirred, shooting a sardonic look at Molly, and said, "Where do you think?" Minerva was surprised to note that there was no sourness or anger in his voice. In fact, she was tempted to call his tone humorous but didn't dare go that far.

"Harry is where he needs to be," Dumbledore said, gently.

When Molly opened her mouth to protest, he raised a warning eyebrow at her. She shut her mouth with a snap and subsided, glowering.

"Harry is not our primary concern, at the moment," Dumbledore went on.

"He will be, if Narcissa babbles to Fudge," Moody growled. "Then we'll be right back where we were this morning, with Potter in the dock, and no excuses this time. Potter was very much in his right mind when he used threw a Cruciatus Curse at her."

A few of the listening wizards gasped, Molly among them, and Minerva felt a stab of fear go through her. Potter? An Unforgivable Curse? What in the name of Heaven could have possessed him to do such a thing, and only hours after rescuing Malfoy from a life sentence in Azkaban for the same crime? She leaned forward in her chair, a heated question forming on her lips, but Albus forestalled her.

"I think it unlikely that Narcissa will say anything about what happened today, and if she does, no one will believe her. Only consider how foolish she made Fudge look with her lies at Draco's trial. He won't put himself in that position a second time, nor will he dare bring open charges against Harry so soon after his own humiliation at Harry's hands."

Minerva blinked at him, startled, and muttered, "Just what did Potter _do_ to the fat fool?"

Dumbledore smiled, some of his old sparkle showing through the worry. "Made him look every inch the fool, my dear Minerva," the smile died and the gleam left his eyes abruptly, "and earned himself an implacable enemy in the process, I'm afraid. But for the present, Harry has more credibility in the eyes of the wizarding world than Fudge, in spite of our esteemed Minister of Magic's attempts to tarnish his reputation, and Narcissa is in no position to challenge him. She was caught today in the company of two escaped prisoners…"

"But Bella and Rodolphus got away," Sirius growled, "so we have no proof."

"We have the word of everyone in this room – except yourself and Remus, of course, whose words would not help our cause – that they fought with Narcissa. And we have the Knight Bus as evidence of their violent intent. We can also, in a pinch, prove that Narcissa threw an Unforgivable Curse of her own."

"She did _what?_" Arthur gasped. Moody nodded lugubriously at him, while Sirius chuckled sourly from his place at the back of the group.

"That's my dear cousin."

Dumbledore sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose between two long fingers – sure sign that he was developing a headache – letting the murmurs die down on their own. Then he went on, "I grant you that Harry's actions were ill-timed and ill-considered, but we must not place too much importance on them. Harry and Draco are back at Hogwarts where they belong, the truth about Lucius' death is known, Fudge's latest attempt to discredit Harry has failed, and Narcissa is under guard at the Ministry. We will deal with a fresh attack on Harry if and when it comes." He brightened a bit. "And on a more cheerful note, we caught four dementors at the ambush. Kingsley managed to dispatch them to our makeshift prison with the others, before Fudge could send them back to Azkaban."

"Dementors." Molly shook her head and muttered"Death Eaters… what was the woman _thinking?_" All eyes in the room turned on her, and she flushed, lifting her chin defiantly. "I wouldn't shed any tears over that son of hers getting his comeuppance, but why Narcissa – his own _mother_ – is so anxious for You-Know-Who to have him, I'll never understand."

Bill laughed humorlessly. "That's because you haven't sold your soul to the Dark Lord, Mum."

"Quite right," Dumbledore said. "You can't know what Narcissa was thinking, because you can't possibly put yourself in her position. It isn't in you to sacrifice a child to Voldemort." His face softened. "Even one you despise."

"Don't be too sure of that, Albus." At his wry look, she shrugged and let her gaze slide away from his. "Oh, very well. I'm not going to hand the boy over to the next dementor I meet. But that just makes Narcissa's behavior all the more puzzling to me. I loathe Malfoy, and I wouldn't wish that on him. How can his mother"

"Narcissa is in a difficult position. She loves her son – of that I am sure – and she honestly believes that he has been ensorcelled by some subtle magic of mine. He would not betray his father, ally himself with Lucius' enemies, and prostitute himself to Harry of his own free will. He would not condemn himself to death…" At Molly's sort of disbelief, he turned serious eyes on her and said, in a soft, chill voice, "Make no mistake; that is exactly what he's done. Draco Malfoy has placed himself squarely between the Dark Lord and Harry Potter. When the final combat begins, where do you think the first blow will fall."

"It's already fallen," Snape rasped out, his eyes burning as they touched Molly's face. "Malfoy took the full brunt of it, and your precious Potter doesn't have a scratch on him."

"I'd say Potter's taken a few good hits," Moody growled.

At the same moment, Molly leaped from her stool, railing, "So now it's Harry's fault that You-Know-Who is after Malfoy? Now he's a coward, hiding behind Malfoy, letting someone else fight his battles?"

"Molly, please…" Arthur began.

Snape cut him off with a burst of cold laughter. "Potter's no coward. He's a damned fool of boy, running headlong into trouble and dragging everyone in range with him, but he's no coward. No. He didn't push Malfoy into this or intentionally put him in danger. Malfoy made his choice." He bared his teeth in something that was not a smile and added, harshly"And I think it's about time you all learned to respect that choice."

In the taut silence that followed his words, Minerva heard Arthur Weasley sigh.

"Sit down, Molly."

His wife slumped back onto her stool, but the mulish set to her jaw warned that she had not surrendered.

"Let's get back to this business with Narcissa," Moody said. "Do we consider her a Death Eater now?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "She doesn't wear the Dark Mark. She's never been connected with any of Voldemort's activities – until today."

"But she chose Voldemort over her son," Remus pointed out.

"I sincerely doubt that Voldemort gave her a choice. He has declared Draco a traitor and condemned him to receive the Dementor's Kiss, and he seems to believe that Draco is the key to winning the war, though how he arrived at this conclusion we don't yet know."

"Ask the centaurs," Hagrid rumbled, speaking for the first time.

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed at him from behind their half-moon spectacles. "I will, when I have the time to ponder stars and portents. In the meantime, we must simply assume that Draco is a very important player in the conflict to come, and we must do everything in our power to protect him, both from Voldemort and from his mother. Narcissa is bound to the Dark Lord by her husband's vows, if not by her own, and does not have the strength to defy him. She is surrounded by his creatures, completely isolated from those of us who might help her, and she will never come to me. She blames me for Draco's treachery. And above all," sadness and regret shadowed Dumbledore's face, "she genuinely believes that Draco is lost. What reason could she have to throw herself on the mercy of her enemies, when her son is already dead in her eyes?"

After a moment's silence, Molly asked, "What will happen to the boy?"

"He has been placed in my care, which is an excellent first step. I've asked Iphigenia Fox to have a look at him. She seemed to think he was still treatable, though now…"

"What do you mean, _now?_"

Dumbledore shot Snape a glance from beneath his lowered brows and asked, quietly, "You were with him most recently, Severus. Has he shown any sign of awareness?"

Snape shook his head. "He hasn't moved or spoken since we found him on the hillside. Potter says he reacted when he… heard his mother scream…"

"When Harry hit her with the Cruciatus Curse?" Remus asked.

Snape glanced at him with a notable lack of malice in his gaze and nodded.

Remus sighed. "Harry will never forgive himself for this."

To everyone's surprise, it was Snape who spoke up in Harry's defense, saying in a flat, tired voice, "Potter did what had to be done. He's torturing himself for it, now that it's too late to change anything, but that's Potter for you. He'll pull himself together."

"Not if we can't bring Malfoy back," Minerva interjected.

"But when you _do_ bring him back," Molly said, "how long will it be before he tells the wizarding world that Harry attacked his mother with an Unforgivable Curse?"

"Draco won't tell anyone," Sirius said tiredly, as if he'd been having this argument – or one very much like it – every day for an endless time.

"So you say, but it seems to me that Narcissa isn't the real threat here. Her son is. He's the one who's close to Harry, the one with the most to gain by betraying him. What's to stop Malfoy from turning Harry over to Fudge? What's to stop him from taking revenge on Harry _himself?_"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Molly!" Minerva cried, her frustration boiling over at last. "How many times must we go over the same ground? Malfoy is no threat to Potter! He's a sixteen-year-old boy, not the embodiment of evil! The worst he's done to Potter, so far, is cost him a bit of sleep. And who among us didn't spend a night or two snogging by the lake, instead of asleep in our beds, when we were that age? It didn't do us any harm, and it certainly won't hurt a healthy specimen like Potter! Though it may cost us the House Cup, if he gets caught one more time, which won't win Malfoy any friends among the Gryffindors."

Dumbledore chuckled at that.

"Then you condone this… this romance of Harry's," Molly said, stiffly.

"I don't recall them asking my permission," Minerva retorted. "And if they did… well, the chances are I'd tell them to run along and enjoy themselves while they could. Merlin knows, they get little enough time for it."

An angry flush stained Molly's cheeks, and she snapped, "You all seem to think this is some kind of joke!"

"Give over, Mum," Bill pleaded. "No one's making a joke of it; we just don't happen to agree with you that Malfoy's the worst thing to happen to Harry since his parents died."

"More likely it's the other way round," Snape muttered, earning him another furious glare from Molly.

Pulling her dignity about her like a cloak, Molly rose to her feet and turned to look down her nose at Dumbledore – just like Narcissa in a snit, Minerva reflected. It must be the Black Blood showing. "I want to see Harry. I assume he's in the hospital wing?"

Dumbledore nodded affably. "Minerva, would you please take the Weasleys down to Poppy? I'll join you when we're finished here."

Minerva opened her mouth to protest – to remind Dumbledore that Potter was in no shape to handle another ambush today – but thought better of it at the last minute and held her tongue. Perhaps it would do Molly good to see Potter. And Malfoy. Perhaps a dose of bitter reality was just what she needed to clear her head.

"We don't need an escort," Molly protested, still at her most dignified and chilling. "We know the way to the hospital wing."

"But you don't know the password that will open the door, nor will Madam Pomfrey allow you in without permission from me." Dumbledore smiled sweetly to take the sting from his words. "Minerva will get you past Harry's guards."

Getting briskly to her feet, Minerva ushered the three Weasleys over to the door and waited for Dumbledore to remove the locking spell. They trooped into the moving stairway in silence, ranging themselves down the curve of the steps, with Minerva still in the lead.

The oppressive silence reigned through the short trip down to the first floor corridor. Even Bill seemed disinclined to engage in idle chatter, with his mother stalking at his side, her face taut with a combination of worry and outrage. Poor Arthur looked as though he wanted to comfort his wife but didn't know how. Watching him from the corners of her eyes, Minerva guessed that he had seen the memories in the Pensieve and had changed his attitude toward Malfoy rather drastically. Molly's continued resistance put him in an awkward position.

They reached the huge, carved oaken door that opened onto the hospital wing. Minerva pulled out her wand, touched the center of the door with its tip, and muttered the password. The door swung inward to reveal Madam Pomfrey standing squarely in front of them, looking severe. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the trio of Weasleys on McGonagall's heels.

"It's all right, Poppy," McGonagall said quickly. "Albus said they could visit Potter."

"This isn't a good time," Madam Pomfrey said.

"Is Harry ill?" Molly asked, as she sidestepped Minvera and rushed into the room. "Is he hurt? Where is he?" Her eyes swept the ward, then halted as they fell on the section of transparent wall and the small room beyond it. Her entire body stiffened, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh, my."

Minerva moved up beside her and gazed through the magical window, into the Room of Requirement. Though she knew exactly what she would see, she still felt her throat tighten in distress.

For a very long moment, no one spoke. Then Minerva said, quietly, "I don't think we should disturb Potter just now."

* * *

Draco had not moved by so much as the flicker of an eyelash since Snape had laid him in his bed and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. He lay stretched out flat on his back, his face as blank and white as the pillowcase that framed it, his eyes closed and his mouth open slightly. The brand on his cheek looked even angrier and uglier than usual, against the lifeless pallor of his skin. 

Harry caught himself staring at the brand, as the only source of color on Draco's body. It drew his eyes like a moth to a candle flame, until he lost all awareness of his surroundings and focused completely on the small, blurred letter burned into that perfect face. His father's last gift to him.

_There must be something I can do_, Harry thought, as he reached up to touch the brand with one finger. Draco did not flinch at his touch, though Harry knew that it must hurt. _There must be a way to reach him_.

More than anything about this ghastly situation, his own helplessness tortured Harry. It was as if he'd spent the last few weeks trapped in a Pensieve, watching terrible things happen while he screamed out useless warnings and snatched at ghosts. And the one time he had done something tangible, something real, it had ended like this. In emptiness and silence.

Harry would have preferred the blank, uncomprehending looks and wandering talk of stars to this. He would gladly have sat in the window embrasure with Draco, staring at his profile, holding his hand, privately weeping at the lack of recognition in his eyes. He would even relish the sight of a Patronus bearing down on him or the feel of crystalline fingers tightening about his throat, if it meant that Draco was still alive, somewhere inside himself, somewhere Harry could find him.

Perhaps he could roll Draco onto his side and curl him up in his usual sleeping position. Perhaps, if Draco weren't lying there like a corpse laid out for viewing, he might feel more himself and be more willing to venture out of hiding. Or perhaps it was Harry's own pain he wanted to ease by relieving the rigid formality and strangeness of the scene. His Draco – his cold-blooded boa constrictor of a love – would never sleep like that, all stiff and straight. He would pull himself into a protective huddle, halfway down the mattress, with his arms tucked in close to his body for warmth and the blankets pulled over his head. He would twine himself around the nearest heat source, holding it fiercely even in the deepest sleep, and give back blind trust in exchange for the warmth he stole.

Harry's entire body ached at the memory of holding Draco close, feeling strong, slender limbs tighten around him, hearing the soft sigh of breath or the occasional sleepy grunt from beneath the blankets that wrapped them both. He wanted desperately to crawl into the bed with Draco and pull the other boy's body against his, so he could feel Draco's weight in his arms again. It hurt to breathe without Draco's head on his chest. It hurt to _live_ without Draco's presence beside him.

Slumping forward in his chair, Harry folded one arm on the mattress and buried his face in the curve of his elbow.

It hurt to live, period. Harry had always known this, but he'd never voiced it to himself until he had to face the possibility of suffering through it all alone. Now he had found the other half of himself, the one person who could make this ridiculous mess of a life bearable, known what it was like to have companionship for a brief time, and that person was being taken away from him. Slowly. Bit by agonizing bit. Leaving Harry to bleed and suffer and mourn, but never to die… not quite, anyway.

Harry slipped his hand beneath the covers and found Draco's arm – there was no hand for him to hold – lying on the mattress. He clasped the other boy's forearm and told himself that the touch gave him comfort. With his eyes still closed and his face still hidden, Harry struggled against the wave of bitterness and self-pity that washed over him and fought to hold back his treacherous tears.

He was still lying with his face buried in his bent arm when he heard the door open. Madam Pomfrey's familiar footsteps approached the bed, taking their time, letting him know that she was coming. He stubbornly did not straighten up or acknowledge her, until she touched his shoulder.

"Potter."

He sat up slowly, lifting dry, desolate eyes to her face. She winced at their touch, and her hand tightened on his shoulder.

"You'll have to leave, Potter. Madam Fox is here, and she wants to examine Malfoy."

"I can't stay with him?"

The nurse shook her head, her lips pursed in a way that Harry would once have interpreted as disapproval but now recognized as distress. "We mustn't interfere with Madam Fox. She's the only one who can help Malfoy, now." The trouble in her face deepened, making her look even more prunish, and she turned away to twitch Draco's blankets into a more perfect state of neatness, muttering, "To think I'd live to see this kind of thing again… spell-shocked students, Wizengamot trials, Unforgivable Curses…"

"You've seen it before?" Harry asked, as he shoved back his chair and rose to his feet.

"A long time ago, but not long enough." She shook her head lugubriously. "Not nearly long enough."

"The others who were like Draco – spell-shocked – did they recover?"

She looked steadily at him for a moment, her normally sharp eyes lost in memory and sorrow, her hands dangling at her sides in uncharacteristic stillness. "Some of them did. The lucky ones."

"And the unlucky ones?"

Her gaze sharpened again, and she gave her skirts a brisk shake as she headed for the door. "That's what the Closed ward at St. Mungo's is for, young man."

Harry swallowed the lump that rose in his throat and followed her across the small room to the door. He had assumed that he would find Dumbledore and Madam Fox waiting for him on the other side, perhaps with McGonagall and Snape in tow, but the last thing he'd expected was an invasion of Weasleys. Harry was caught completely unprepared by the flurry of brown robes and flaming red hair that descended upon him the moment he stepped into the main ward.

"Harry! Oh, Harry, my dear!" Mrs. Weasley surged toward him with both hands outstretched to catch his and tears in her eyes. "Thank goodness you're all right!"

Harry sidestepped her attempt to touch him and sidled away from the door. He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, both at the scene Mrs. Weasley was making and at being confronted by her here, right outside Draco's room.

"Hallo, Mrs. Weasley," he mumbled.

She halted and, after an awkward moment, dropped her hands. "We've been so worried about you, Arthur and I. We were there, at the ambush, but we couldn't find you in all the furor. I was afraid you'd been hurt by Narcissa or that ghastly sister of hers!"

"They didn't want me," Harry said, coldly.

"No. No, I suppose not."

She gazed reproachfully at him for a moment, her body stiff with strain and her lips thinned to a rigid line. Then, quite suddenly, she gave a choking sob and let the tears spill from her eyes. Her face softened and the reproach in her gaze turned to pleading. "I know you're very angry with me," she blurted out, "and I don't blame you, dear. I've been perfectly awful, scolding and bullying, making this so much harder for you. I am truly sorry!"

Harry felt his mouth drop open in shock and tried to shut it, but it only sagged open again. "What?" he said, stupidly.

"I should never have spoken to you the way I did yesterday. I had no right." Her hand came up to rest against his cheek. "Oh, Harry, I can't bear to see you so worn and worried! You poor child! Only tell me what I can do to help. I'll do anything at all, even if it means helping a Malfoy in the process."

"He's not _a_ Malfoy, he's _Draco_ Malfoy, and I love him."

She swallowed once, loudly, then said, "I know you do."

He looked straight into her eyes for a moment, reading her genuine concern, and he had to close his own eyes very tightly to control himself. "Do you mean it, Mrs. Weasley?" he asked, his voice sounding unnaturally high in his own ears.

"Of course I mean it."

Harry felt her lips press to his cheek in a motherly kiss, and he uttered a low, ragged sob. In the next instant, he fastened his arms around her plump waist and buried his face in her neck, hugging her as hard as his arms could manage, while she alternately chuckled and sniffled in his ear.

When Harry finally collected himself and let go of Mrs. Weasley, he looked up to find both Bill and Mr. Weasley right behind her, watching him anxiously. He flushed and stepped away from Mrs. Weasley, deeply embarrassed to be caught in such a childish emotional display, but neither of them seemed bothered by it.

Mr. Weasley squeezed his arm in a fatherly way and said, "We're grateful you weren't hurt in the ambush, my boy. Dreadful business. Quite appalling. But Narcissa is under lock and key, so she won't be troubling you again."

Harry tried to smile his thanks, but it came out all crooked and wobbly. "Has she said anything about… what I did?"

"No, and the less said by any of us on that head, the better."

"Right." Harry looked away from the trio of worried Weasleys and let his eyes stray to the magical window that opened on Draco's room. He could see Madam Fox and Madam Pomfrey standing by Draco's bed, talking. "What happens now?" he asked.

Mr. Weasley answered him. "We leave it in Genie Fox's hands. She's the best there is, Harry. Quite the expert in this kind of thing. She's also young Malfoy's Great Aunt, or some such thing, so she has a personal stake in this."

Harry gave a start of alarm and turned wide, anxious eyes on Mr. Weasley. "She's a Malfoy?"

"A Black, as it happens."

"But that means…" He took a step toward the door, then halted and turned back to the Weasleys, gnawing his lower lip. "Isn't she dangerous?"

"Albus wouldn't let her anywhere near him, if she were," Mrs. Weasley said, with only a hint of dryness in her voice. "You don't have to worry about Genie."

Mr. Weasley grinned conspiratorially at him. "She's another of Dumbledore's moles. Fudge counted on her Black family ties to set her against Dumbledore, and that's why he put Malfoy in her care." The grin widened, and his eyes began to twinkle. "Must have come as a nasty surprise to old Fudge, when she turned on him at the trial. Albus has Fudge so worried that he's looking under his pillow for spies every night."

"Now, now, Arthur, don't be giving Harry false notions about our esteemed Minister of Magic." Dumbledore stepped up to them, smiling pleasantly, but he sobered at once when his eyes touched Harry's face. "There's no point in you waiting here, Mr. Potter. This may take some time."

"I'd rather stay, if you don't mind, Professor. I want to hear what Madam Fox says about Draco."

"And you will, you have my word." Dumbledore regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, "Go to my office and wait. No one will disturb you there."

Harry nodded his thanks and turned for the door, relieved that he didn't have to face the other Gryffindors or figure out what class he was missing, grateful that Dumbledore understood how badly he needed to be part of Draco's healing process – if, in fact, there would be any healing done. He allowed himself one last glance through the magical window as he passed the Room of Requirement. No one appeared to have moved since he'd last looked. Turning resolutely away from the sight of Draco lying so still in the bed, he hurried out of the ward.

* * *

"A memory charm?" Harry looked blankly at the Healer, who sat in the wingback chair opposite his. "You mean, you just tap him with your wand, erase a chunk of his memory, and he's well? Just like that?" 

Madam Fox pursed her lips, making her look more than every like Aunt Petunia, and shook her head. "Hardly 'just like that.' This is not a standard memory charm, Mr. Potter, but a very complex, delicate process with unpredictable results."

Harry glanced from the Healer to Professor Dumbledore, looking for some hint of the Headmaster's thoughts in his face but finding none. Snape was no help either, since he wore his usual glower and avoided looking at Harry all together. Clearly, the adults wanted him to make some sort of decision on his own, without their guidance, but Harry had no idea what they expected of him.

He sat with Dumbledore, Madam Fox and Professor Snape in the Headmaster's office, where Harry had waited patiently for more than two hours. The afternoon was lengthening toward evening, the golden rays of the sun slanting sharply through the tall windows and lighting the dust motes that danced in the air. It was an incongruous time and place to be talking of madness and memory charms, but Harry had grown numb to his surroundings and did not stop to think about the loveliness of the spring afternoon. His life had narrowed down to this fierce, single-minded struggle to save Draco, a struggle that he sensed was coming to a head right here and now.

"So," he ventured, eyeing Dumbledore warily, "you think that erasing the memory of his captivity will help Draco recover, but you're not sure, and there's something… Could it make him worse?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "There is little danger of that."

"Then what are you so worried about?"

"The _Memoria__ Recursiva_ charm is, as Madam Fox says, a very complex spell. It not only erases memories; it also removes the network of emotions that supports and connects memories in the wizard's mind. No memory stands alone, Harry. No single event in your life happens in isolation. And the thing that binds one memory to another is emotion."

"The same emotion that wounds or heals the mind, that drives a person to desperation or gives him strength," Madam Fox added, softly.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face, but he kept his voice level when he said, "Draco's emotions are hurting him."

"Yes. The complex web of memory and feeling built in him by what his father and the Dark Lord did to him has ensnared his mind, trapping him in a place where he cannot bear to live, and so he retreats. Becomes nothing, rather than the person who remembers and feels these things. The only way to free him is to cut the web. Take away both the memory and the emotion bound to it."

"Then he'll come back."

"He'll have the _choice_ to come back."

Harry lifted his head at that, certainty stiffening his spine. "He'll come for me. I know he will."

Dumbledore gave him a look made equally of pride and sorrow. "Ah, but what if he does not remember you?"

Harry stared at him in silence, as full understanding finally hit him.

"Draco's feelings for you are very tightly woven into his memories of his father and the Giants' Dance, so tightly that it was you he reached for in his moment of greatest danger." Dumbledore's voice dropped to a gentle murmur. "Think of the Patronus, Harry."

Harry did not need the old wizard's reminder. He was already seeing again, in his mind, the magnificent creature erupting from the tip of Draco's finger and bounding among the dementors, shaking its mane. The Gryffindor lion. In the middle of his insane nightmare, caught between Voldemort, the dementors and his own mad father, Draco had called upon a Gryffindor lion to protect him. And again, when he knelt alone on the Salisbury plain, his mind rapidly slipping away into darkness, he had seen Harry in the stars above him, spoken to him, reached for him and unknowingly saved himself.

Swallowing to clear the tightness from his throat, Harry rasped out, "You're afraid that you'll… erase me from his memory along with Voldemort. Erase _us_."

"There is that risk."

"How big a risk?" He glanced at Madam Fox, eyes pleading. "How much will he forget?"

"The spell can usually be confined to a period of six months from the target memory."

"Six months," Harry murmured dully.

"Sometimes less, if we can tune it finely enough. We will do everything in our power to keep the effects as specific as possible, but we must go deeply enough into his memory to relieve the pain and erase the fear. If we take too little, he will not heal."

"And if you take too much, he forgets that he ever chose Professor Dumbledore over Lord Voldemort."

Dumbledore and Madam Fox both nodded soberly. Harry turned to look at Snape and found the Potions Master's eyes on him. They burned with a curious intensity.

"Is that really what you're afraid of, Potter?" Snape asked in his silkiest, most deadly voice.

Harry lifted his chin a fraction and refused to look away. "Yes."

"You wouldn't be fretting that Malfoy might forget your little romance? Maybe choose another place to sleep?"

Harry did not give him the satisfaction of flinching under the lash of word and tone. Instead, he retorted, sounding oddly confident in his own ears, "No, I'm not. I know he won't forget me."

"Because you're The Boy Who Lived, and you decree it?" Snape drawled, his lip lifted in a sneer.

"He may forget _us_, but he won't forget _me_. He's known me for six years."

"And hated you for most of that time."

"Draco never hated me." Snape's eyebrows rose at that, but Harry went on, doggedly, "It was my fault we spent all those years as enemies, not his, and _I'm_ not forgetting anything. If I have to start all over again, convince him to trust me again, I will, but this time I won't wait six years."

Snape subsided into his chair, glowering at Harry from beneath lowered brows but offering no further comment.

Dumbledore, who had sat with his fingertips pressed together and his bright eyes fixed on Harry through this exchange, now spoke up. "Do you understand what Madam Fox is proposing, Harry?"

"I think so."

"You understand what Draco stands to gain, and to lose, if the charm works?"

Harry nodded.

"Then tell me, Mr. Potter, what would you have me do?"

Harry gazed into the old wizard's enigmatic face, realizing that this was the decision Dumbledore had been pushing him toward all along. And even Snape, who was obviously dying to say something nasty to Harry at that moment, was waiting for him to speak his mind. He glanced from Dumbledore to Madam Fox, his mouth suddenly dry, and said, "I want Draco back, and I don't care what it costs. If the charm will help him, do it."

Dumbledore's face relaxed, and an approving gleam showed in his eyes. He nodded once at Madam Fox.

"That's it, then," the Healer said, satisfaction plain in her voice. "I'll need your help with the potion, Professor Snape, and I'd like Filius Flitwick to assist me with the charm itself. There's no one with a lighter touch or a more skilful wand than Filius."

"My staff is at your disposal," Dumbledore said, with a smile.

"When will you do it?" Harry asked nervously. The queasy feeling in his stomach told him that he wasn't nearly as certain of the charm's success as he had sounded a moment before.

"As soon as we have the sleeping potion brewed."

"Why do you need to put him to sleep when he's… the way he is?"

"The potion puts him into a very deep sleep and opens the pathways in his mind, making him more susceptible to the workings of the charm. It also promotes a purely physical healing, taking him beyond the distress of mind and body where he can rest."

"So you give him the potion, do the charm, and then…"

"Let him sleep."

"For how long?"

"As long as he likes, Mr. Potter. He'll awaken when – or if – he's ready to enter his life again. That's when we'll know if the charm worked."

Dumbledore waited a moment for her words to sink into Harry's mind, then he pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and rose to his feet. "Let's get started on that potion, then, shall we?"

Madam Fox and Snape stood up and headed for the door, but they all halted when Harry called, "Professor Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore turned, with his hand still on the door knob. "Yes, Harry?"

"May I… May I talk to Draco, alone, before you put him to sleep? There are some things I need to say to him."

Dumbledore thought about that for half a second, then nodded. "Very well. You may stay with Draco until Madam Fox is ready. Then I must insist that you leave his room and leave the hospital wing all together, until I send for you. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Good. Come along, my boy."

Harry trailed after Dumbledore and the others, down the spiral staircase and along the Second floor corridor. At the main stairs, Snape and Madam Fox went off to the dungeons together, earnestly discussing potion ingredients and brewing techniques. Dumbledore waited for Harry to catch him up, then he walked at his side down the staircase to the next floor.

They were nearly to the hospital wing when Harry broke the silence. "Professor, do you really trust Madam Fox?"

"Implicitly. Why do you ask?"

"Well, isn't she a Black? Related to Draco's mother?"

"She is Narcissa's Aunt."

Harry halted in front of the hospital wing door and turned to face Dumbledore. "Then isn't it possible that she _wants_ Draco to forget the last six months? Forget his loyalty to you and his feelings for me? Maybe Mrs. Malfoy sent her to erase his memory."

"I'm afraid you're just going to have to trust my judgment on this." Dumbledore flashed him a smile, as he pulled his wand from his robe and pointed it at the locked door. "You, of all people, should know that not all Blacks are cut from the same cloth, Harry. "

He tapped the door once, and it flew open. At Dumbledore's gesture, Harry went through it first, followed closely by Dumbledore. Inside the hospital wing, he spotted the Weasleys huddled together in a corner, muttering to one another, and McGonagall pacing up and down in front of the magical window. They all turned to watch Dumbledore and Harry enter. Mrs. Weasley took a step toward Harry but stopped when she got a good look at his face. No one else so much as moved until Harry had opened the inner door with his password and slipped through it. Then they converged on Dumbledore, all talking at once.

Harry closed the door on their noise and crossed the room on silent cat-feet. His chair still stood at the head of the bed, exactly where he'd left it, and Draco had not moved. Harry sat down, crossed his arms on the mattress, and propped his chin on them. He gazed steadily at the other boy, wishing with all his might that Draco would open his eyes, just once, and look at Harry while there was still time. While the memory of what they meant to each other still existed somewhere in his shattered mind.

"Madam Fox thinks she has a way to help you," Harry murmured to the lifeless face just a few inches from his own. "She's going to do some magic to get rid of the memories and stuff that are making you so ill. When you wake up, you won't remember any of it and it won't hurt anymore. You won't remember this conversation. You might not even remember me. Us."

Harry sighed and closed his eyes, trying to block out his own despair with the sight of his wounded archangel lying in a heap of broken wings and spilled robes, his light dimmed and fading, his gold-leaf halo gone. But even with his eyes screwed shut, Harry could see the echoes of pain and horror in Draco's face, the purple shadows beneath his eyes, the livid brand on his cheek. It did him no good to hide. Opening his eyes again, Harry gazed sadly at Draco and, abandoning restraint, moved his hand to rest against the other boy's head. He began to comb his fingers through the tangled strands of silver-gilt hair in an unconscious, comforting gesture as he murmured softly,

"There are things I need to tell you, but it's incredibly hard when I know they will all be erased by the next time I see you."

His hand fell still, resting on Draco's head, then his thumb slid down to touch the frown line between his eyebrows.

"Please don't be afraid, Draco. I swear you don't have to do this alone. I'll stay with you, no matter how much you forget or how many times you tell me to bugger off, because this is where I belong. With you. Always with you."

Slow, hot tears welled up in Harry's eyes and slid from between his lashes. He had fought them all through this ghastly day, and now, at last, he stopped fighting and let them come. If there was one place he could cry in safety, it was here, with Draco. Draco would understand. Draco would look at him fondly, call him a sentimental prat, and let him cry into his shoulder until the ache in his heart eased. If Draco were here…

"You have to come back!" he gasped. "I can't bear it anymore, being alone like this! I don't care if you forget every second we ever spent together. I don't care if you say you hate me. I'll know it isn't true, that you still love me, deep down inside where you always did, and I'll stay with you! Just come back, and I'll prove it to you!"

"Potter." It was Madam Pomfrey, standing in the open doorway, motioning for him to leave.

Harry glanced once at her, then pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, with his hand still resting on Draco's head. Then he bent over the bed and pressed a kiss between the other boy's silvered brows.

"I love you, Draco Malfoy," he whispered to his unknowing archangel. "Don't forget."

"Come along, Potter," Madam Pomfrey called.

"And don't be afraid."

Kissing Draco's forehead one last time, Harry straightened up and moved over to the door. As he sidled past the nurse, he wiped his sleeve across his eyes in a belated attempt to hide his tears. Madam Pomfrey kindly pretended not to notice, as did the others waiting just outside the door. Harry did not acknowledge them, but hurried past with his face averted. He didn't have the strength to control himself any longer, and the thought of facing Dumbledore's piercing gaze, Snape's derision or Mrs. Weasley's motherly concern frankly horrified him.

The hospital ward seemed unnaturally long to Harry, as he walked the length of it under so many anxious eyes. He got through the door with his composure and his dignity intact, shut it firmly behind him, and took off down the corridor at a run.

**_To be continued…_**


	13. Up From the Shadows

**Chapter 12: _Up From the Shadows_**

Harry climbed through the portrait hole and strode across the common room, paying no mind to the handful of people seated around the fire. They all looked up in surprise at his entrance, and Hermione got to her feet.

"Harry?" she called as he hurried by. "What are you…?"

He did not slow his pace but muttered an incoherent apology and bounded up the spiral staircase two steps at a time. Her question died unfinished. After a long, tense silence, a babble of voices broke out in the common room below. Harry raced up the last few steps, flung open the door to his room, then slammed and bolted it behind him.

He did not want to be here. This room offered him no comfort and little privacy. But he had to stay where Dumbledore could find him, so his more isolated haunts were out of the question. The Gryffindor tower was the obvious place for a Gryffindor to wait – regardless of the fact that he had never felt less like a Gryffindor than he did now.

Harry looked around dazedly, seeing the scarlet curtains on his bed and the scattered belongings of his roommates through a fog of pain. Seamus had thrown his dirty robes on the floor. Dean had left several drawings strewn across his bed and rug, and had spilled ink on the coverlet. Neville had forgotten his Remembrall – again – leaving it on his pillow. Only Harry's belongings, which he had not touched since hastily packing for the trip to London yesterday, were where the house elves had put them, in perfect order and unused. The neatness of his bed, compared to the comfortably messy beds of the others, only served to impress upon him how little he belonged here.

He belonged with Draco, whether the Slytherin was alive or dead, awake or sunk in forgetful dreams. Apart from him, Harry felt hollow, disconnected, lost, and the feeling grew stronger than ever in this room that had been his home for so long. Draco was home to him now. Stone walls and curtained beds could not replace him or fill the hole left in Harry by his absence.

Voices sounded outside the door, breaking into Harry's thoughts and bringing a savage frustration boiling up in him. He recognized Ron's low voice, though he could not make out his words, then Hermione's much higher and more piercing tone.

"Yes you can, Ron! Go on! I'll make sure no one bothers you."

Ron mumbled something else.

Harry turned toward the door, his body shaking with an anger he had no way to vent, and shouted, "Go away!"

Someone pounded on the door.

"Open up, Harry," Hermione called. "Ron wants to talk to you!"

"I do not!" Ron protested, then his words died away into frantic mumbles again.

"Oh, honestly, Ron Weasley."

"Leave me alone!" Harry cried, furiously. He knew that his friends only meant well, but he didn't want well-intentioned meddling now. He wanted to be alone, to scream and throw things and… His eyes lighted on Neville's Remembrall, and he snatched it up. It fit neatly into his palm, just the right size for throwing. Whirling toward the door and the sound of his friends' muffled argument, he hurled the Remembrall against it with all his strength, screaming, "_Go away!_"

The glass ball shattered against the door, sending a cascade of glittering shards to the floor and a coil of crimson smoke toward the ceiling.

A shocked silence met his outburst, then Hermione grabbed the doorknob, shook it, and called, "You open this door, Harry Potter, or I'll spell it open!"

"Do it," Harry snapped, turning his back and flinging himself face down on his bed. "I don't care."

Hermione murmured a spell, the bolt slid back, and the door opened. Harry could hear Ron clearly for the first time. He was protesting in a squeaky whisper, insisting that he didn't know what to say and Harry didn't want any company. Hermione overrode him brusquely.

"You're the only one he _will_ talk to, Ron, so quit fussing and get in there. I'll keep the rest of them out."

"Why don't _you_ do it?"

"I'm a girl," she said, tartly, as though this simple fact explained everything. Abandoning persuasion for brute force, she shoved Ron bodily through the door and slammed it behind him. Another spell slid the bolt back into place, and Hermione's weight settled against the door as she took up her guard position outside it.

Harry lay very still, waiting for Ron to make up his mind whether or not he had the courage to speak. His burst of destructive violence had drained much of the anger from Harry, but the misery did not ease. He didn't want to break things anymore, just to curl up in a ball and cry until his body was empty of tears, but he couldn't do that in front of Ron. He couldn't do anything but lie here and hurt.

Ron took a hesitant step toward him, boots crunching on broken glass. "Rough day, mate?"

"About average," Harry retorted bitterly, his words muffled by the coverlet.

"Want to, uhmmm… Want to talk about it?"

"You don't have to do this, Ron." Harry pushed himself away from the mattress, rolled over, and sat up. Ron was standing just inside the door, surrounded by the splintered remains of the Remembrall, looking at Harry in a hang-dog, pleading way that made him look like a very tall, gangly five-year-old. He shuffled his feet noisily and ducked his head under Harry's brooding gaze. "I know you'd rather snog a Blast-Ended Skrewt than talk to me about Malfoy."

"I reckoned this had something to do with him."

That masterful understatement forced a short, humorless laugh from Harry. Ron glanced up at him and broke out in a shame-faced grin. "Talking to you was more Hermione's idea," he admitted.

"Yeah. I heard."

Ron sidled over to his own bed and perched on the edge of the mattress. "It's not that I don't want to talk. It's just that… I figured you'd rather be alone, what with you shouting at us to go away and all."

Harry sighed and flopped back on the bed. "You don't have to go, as long as you don't start in on Draco. I can't take anymore of that rubbish today."

"I promised I wouldn't, didn't I?"

Harry heard the injured note in his voice and turned to look at him. Ron sat with his head down, picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans, the tips of his ears turning bright pink.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Harry said. "I… well, I thought you might slip up, now that Draco's back. You seem to do better with not hating him when he isn't actually _here_."

Ron shot Harry a look from beneath his lowered brows. "He isn't here now, so I think I can control myself. Mind you, I can't promise that I won't forget and call him Ferret once in a while, but only in the most affectionate sort of way."

Again, Harry couldn't help but laugh, though he had rarely been in a less humorous situation in his life. Something about Ron's face when he said _affectionate_ - as if he'd just swallowed a particularly large and disgusting slug – seemed ludicrously funny to Harry. "Thanks," he said, with a tired grin.

Ron's ears started to glow with the heat of his embarrassment. "So…" He looked quizzically at Harry for a moment, then demanded, "What happened today that's got you throwing things and screaming like a bally idiot?"

"You don't want to know." Harry thought about that for a second and amended, "I don't want to talk about it."

"McGonagall told us about the trial. She said you and Dumbledore had a plan for rescuing Malfoy."

"Dumbledore had a plan. I sat and listened."

Ron looked suitably skeptical at that. "You just sat… _you?_"

"Okay, so I said a couple of things. Mostly to Fudge." Harry's lips twitched. "About his wife."

Ron's eyebrows flew up nearly to his hairline. "Does Fudge _have_ a wife?"

"I don't know. That's not the point."

"The point is that you stood up to that old bugger."

Harry looked steadily at his friend, measuring the depth of his new-found tolerance, then said, softly, "I stood up in front of the whole Wizengamot and threw my love life in their faces, Ron. I made them accept that Draco and I are lovers, then I made them let him go. And it wasn't a brave thing to do at all; it was sheer desperation. I'd have done anything to save him."

"It's the hero in you. You can't help yourself."

"I wasn't much of a hero today."

"But you just said…"

Harry silenced him with a brusque gesture and turned his gazed to the hangings above his head. He felt the ache grow in his chest again, tears gathering in his throat and stinging his eyes. So many emotions churned sickeningly inside him, making it impossible to tell what was causing this fresh surge of grief and pain, but he knew that guilt was first among them. A dreadful, gnawing, agonizing guilt that threatened to overwhelm him if he didn't talk to someone about what he'd done, and this was one thing that he could never share with Draco. He had to tell Ron, or he'd burst from the pressure of holding it all in.

"I did something really awful today, Ron. So awful that I'm not supposed to tell anyone about it, in case…"

"You can tell me," Ron said, without hesitation. "You know you can."

"You won't say anything? Even to Hermione?"

"Word of Honor."

"I used an Unforgivable Curse." It came out in a rush, sounding almost silly when spoken aloud, as if he were trying to describe a hideous nightmare only to find that it looked childish and harmless in the light of day.

"Really?" Ron asked, eagerly. "On who?"

"Narcissa Malfoy."

That got more of the response Harry had expected. Ron's eyes flew open wide, and he whistled appreciatively. "Malfoy's mum? Was he… I mean, did he see it?"

"Yes." Harry covered his eyes with one hand, but it did nothing to soften the memory playing in his head. The images only became clearer in the darkness. "She tried to hit me with a Cruciatus Curse and… missed. She hit Draco instead."

"Bloody Hell," Ron muttered.

"I panicked. I didn't know how to stop her from hitting me with the next one, taking Draco away, giving him to the dementors… I couldn't think of anything else to do! So I used the Cruciatus Curse on her."

"Bloody Hell! Does Fudge know about this? Are they going to arrest you, like they did Malfoy?"

"I don't know. Maybe. But that's not the worst part."

"Going to Azkaban for the rest of your life isn't the worst part!"

"I guess it will be, if it happens, but I'm having trouble worrying about that right now. I'm too worried about Draco."

"Hermione said he was in bad shape."

"He's in a lot worse shape now than he was when she saw him. Thanks to me."

Ron said, with a touch of impatience in his voice, "Thanks to you, he's alive and back at Hogwarts, instead of losing the rest of his mind in Azkaban. Are you going to start in again with that rubbish about You-Know-Who only torturing Malfoy to hurt you?"

"It's true."

"Not if Hagrid's got it right."

Harry sat up abruptly. "What do you mean?"

"Hermione and I had tea with Hagrid yesterday, and he told us about the centaurs. All that stuff Firenze said about how they couldn't let Malfoy die because the stars forbade it."

Harry gaped at him, while his brain churned helplessly, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

"If the stars are mixed up in this, then it's way past being your fault, or Malfoy's, or even his parents'. It's huge." Ron cocked an eyebrow at him. "Maybe You-Know-Who listens to the centaurs, or looks at the stars himself, and he knows more about Malfoy than we do."

"Dumbledore said something like that."

"Well, there you go," Ron said, smugly. "If _Dumbledore_ agrees with me…"

"But that means Draco is in real danger," Harry blurted out, cutting off his self-congratulation.

"We knew that already."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, realized that Ron was absolutely right, and shut it again with a snap. After a quiet moment, he said, "How am I going to protect him, if I don't know why Voldemort wants him?"

Ron shrugged and answered, blithely, "We'll figure it out. We always do." He grinned at Harry. "Well, Hermione does, and we manage to catch on eventually. In the meantime, he's got Dumbledore, McGonagall, the entire Order of the Phoenix and the bloody Hero of the bloody Wizarding World looking out for him. Even Voldemort couldn't touch him!"

Harry gave a reluctant laugh and fell back on the bed once more, feeling much of the tension drain out of him. He was still miserable, guilt-ridden, angry and frustrated by his own helplessness, but at least he wasn't alone.

"Ron?" he said, after a few minutes of companionable silence.

"Hmm?"

"Did you know that your parents are in the castle?"

"Really? What're they doing here?"

Harry rolled onto his side and propped his head on one fist. Ron was sprawled comfortably on his own bed, twiddling his wand in his fingers and sending mustard-colored smoke curling out of its end. For a moment, it all felt so normal and relaxed that Harry almost forgot why they were locked in the dormitory with Hermione standing guard outside. He gazed at his old friend, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, and let the little flicker of warmth inside him expand.

When Harry did not answer immediately, Ron dropped his wand and demanded, worriedly, "I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"No, they're here on Order business."

Ron eyed him suspiciously, sensing another long, convoluted, problematic story in his simple remark but choosing not to ask.

"I was just wondering…" Harry ventured. "If you get a chance to talk to your mum, maybe you could tell her, well, that you've changed your mind about Draco. Or at least that you're trying."

Ron gave a disbelieving snort. "Talk to my mum about Draco Malfoy? Are you _mad?_"

"I'm serious. It might help."

"Harry, she _loathes_ Malfoy! Fred says she won't allow his name spoken in the house! She even threatened to hex my dad when he wouldn't let her send Malfoy a poisoned plum cake!"

"I know. But she's softening up a bit, at least toward me, and I thought you could sort of help her along by telling her that Draco isn't really such an awful person."

Harry could tell by the look on Ron's face that he was dying to make a nasty crack, but he controlled the impulse and said, in a slightly suffocated voice, "I could do that. For you, Harry. Because you're my best mate and a big, bally hero and the only one who can defeat You-Know-Who. And if you're pining away over Malfoy, you won't have your mind on your job, and you might just forget to save the wizarding world at the crucial time! _Not_ because I would miss Malfoy's ferrety face around here if he disappeared again, or because he makes me laugh, or because he annoys the hell out of Seamus, which is a beautiful thing to behold!"

"Understood."

"Okay, then." Ron grinned over at him. "As long as we're clear on that."

"Absolutely clear." Harry returned the other boy's smile, letting his affection and gratitude show plainly in his face. "Thanks, Ron."

Ron's smile faded, an odd seriousness darkening his eyes, and he murmured, "I'd do pretty much anything for you, Harry. Don't you know that by now?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Short of snogging a Blast-Ended Skrewt, that is."

"I solemnly swear that I will never ask you to kiss a Skrewt."

"Hmph. But you did just ask me to talk about Malfoy – with my _mother_, no less."

"So Draco ranks above a Skrewt, now?"

"Very slightly, maybe, when I'm in a forgiving mood, but I won't kiss him either."

Harry's smile broadened into a grin, and he uttered the first genuine laugh he had managed in days. "I can absolutely promise that I won't ask you to do that! In fact, if you do, I may have to hurt you."

"Fair enough." Ron picked up his wand and spun it between his fingers, sending more of the yellowish smoke spiraling toward the ceiling. "So what do we do now?"

"Wait." Harry sank back on the bed and flung an arm over his eyes. "Just wait."

* * *

Harry went to bed early, not because he had any real hope of sleeping but because he didn't have anywhere else to be and he couldn't face his housemates in the common room. He stayed hidden behind his bed curtains, even when the other boys clumped up the stairs just before lights-out, Seamus loudly regaling them with lurid gossip and jokes about Draco. When Ron told him to shut his fat gob, Seamus retaliated with a dig about Ron fancying "the pretty ferret" himself, but as this did not win him any laughs from Neville or Dean, he let it drop and crawled into bed, grumbling.

It was the longest night Harry could ever remember. He couldn't sleep, couldn't distract himself from what might be happening downstairs in the hospital wing, and couldn't think of anything to do to pass the time more quickly that wouldn't land him in trouble with McGonagall or Dumbledore. He was deeply grateful for his first glimpse of morning light through the bed curtains – so grateful that he didn't even mind having to face Seamus Finnegan over breakfast.

He passed the morning in a fog of worry and exhaustion, trailing after Ron and Hermione to class, paying no attention to what the professors said and barely registering what class he was attending. He completely ignored the sideways looks of the other students and the more pointed stares of his teachers, who had not seen him since the start of the new term and were both curious and irritated by his lack of attention. Nothing penetrated his stupor until they had finished their lunch and were headed to the first class of the afternoon.

As they crossed from the Great Hall to the dungeons, Harry came back to himself with a lurch and stopped dead in the middle of the entry hall.

"I'm not going to Potions," he said, flatly. "I'll go to the library instead, try to get caught up on my homework."

"Don't be silly, Harry," Hermione chided. "You can't get caught up in one afternoon, and you can't afford to miss anymore classes."

"I don't even know what potion we're making today! I haven't studied the recipe or prepared my ingredients or…"

"I'll help you," she said, as she caught his arm and tried to drag him toward the dungeon stairs. When he refused to budge, she shot him an exasperated look and demanded, "Do you want Dumbledore to know where to find you or not?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you have to stay where you belong."

"Maybe he's right, Hermione," Ron said. "Snape's bound to be in a foul mood."

"Honestly. How you two can still be afraid of Professor Snape after all these years, I'll never understand."

"He's _evil!_"

She gave a snort of disgust.

"If I were Harry, I wouldn't want to face a dungeon full of Slytherins," Ron grumbled.

"It won't be full of Slytherins. There are hardly any Sixth Years left, since the siege…"

"Another reason for Snape to be cranky."

"_Harry_ didn't send them away."

"And you think that matters to Snape?" Ron demanded.

"Oh, shut up, both of you," Harry sighed. He shrugged his book bag higher onto his shoulder, clamped his cauldron to his side, and stalked over to the stairs with grim determination. "Even an afternoon of Snape will be better than listening to you two bicker."

"I still think you should skive off," Ron muttered, as he followed Harry down the steps. "We should all three skive off. Let old Snape pick on Seamus for a change."

"He'd only torture Neville," Hermione scolded, "and we'd lose points for Gryffindor – points we can _not_ afford, may I remind you."

Harry sighed again and quickened his pace, trying to distance himself from the sniping pair behind him. He devoutly wished that Ron and Hermione would hurry their courtship along, get past the bickering stage and into the cooing stage, before they drove everyone around them barmy.

The class progressed pretty much as Harry had expected, with Snape hovering over him like a carrion crow, snapping out insults and taking points from Gryffindor for every imagined mistake, the Gryffindors muttering about Snape's unfairness, and the Slytherins sulking in their corner. Harry managed to brew a decent potion – at least it looked very much like Hermione's, which was a good sign – and not to melt his cauldron, but he still had no idea what he was making.

He was stirring the glutinous, swamp-green glop in his cauldron, wondering idly what would happen if he slipped it into Seamus' pumpkin juice at dinner, when the door opened and Professor McGonagall came in. All activity in the dungeon stopped as everyone turned to stare at the Transfiguration Master. She bent over Snape's desk and whispered something in his ear. Snape's black eyes came up to fix on Harry's face.

"Potter." Everyone in the room jumped at the crack of his voice; Harry's stomach dropped through the floor. Snape twitched his head toward the door, where McGonagall waited in tight-lipped silence. "Go with Professor McGonagall."

"Yes, Professor."

His hands shaking and his mouth suddenly dry, Harry got to his feet and began scraping his potion ingredients together, preparing to shove them into his bag.

"Leave that," Snape growled. "Weasley and Granger will clean it up."

Harry obediently dropped his bag, shoved his wand into his pocket, and slid from behind the table. Utter silence reigned in the dungeon as he crossed to McGonagall. She waved him past, her face inscrutable, then closed the door behind them. Harry only just heard Snape barking, "Quit gawping and keep stirring! Crabbe, I need you to take a message…" before the heavy door cut off his voice.

McGonagall started down the passage at a brisk pace, and Harry fell into step at her side.

"Is it Draco, Professor?" he demanded. "Is he awake? Did he say anything? Does he remember…"

"Relax, Potter. Don't forget to breathe."

"_Please_, Professor!"

McGonagall shot him a softened look and said, gruffly, "Malfoy is still asleep, but Genie Fox says that the potion has worn off and his sleep pattern is normal. She expects him to wake up any time."

Mingled panic and exultation surged up in Harry, forcing an wordless cry from him. He bolted away from McGonagall, ran full tilt along the dark dungeon passage and took the steps at the end in a bound.

"Slow down, Potter!" McGonagall called. "You'll break your neck before you get to the hospital wing!"

But Harry paid her no mind. He flew across the entry hall and up the main staircase without feeling the cold marble beneath his feet. Down the length of the first floor hallway he raced, as portraits started out of dozes or interrupted chats with their neighbors to watch him go by, then he slid to a panting halt before the locked door to the hospital wing. Only then did he remember that he needed McGonagall to open the door for him, but McGonagall was still somewhere back in the dungeons, and Harry had no intention of waiting for her.

He hammered on the door with his fist and shouted, "Professor Dumbledore, it's me! Harry!" A pause to listen, then he started pounding again. "Professor! Madam Pomfrey! Open up!"

The door flew open, and Harry only just checked himself in time to avoid smacking Dumbledore in the face.

"Oh. Sorry, Professor."

"Ah, Harry, it's you," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "I see that Professor McGonagall found you. Where did you leave her?"

"Back there somewhere." Harry waved toward the stairway. "Is Draco awake yet? Can I see him?"

"Come in, my boy, and catch your breath."

Harry did not need a second invitation. He hurried past Dumbledore and over to the Room of Requirement, where Madam Fox stood at the patch of transparent wall, gazing intently at the scene beyond it. Inside the smaller room, Madam Pomfrey bustled about in her usual, efficient way, lighting candles with her wand, spelling long velvet drapes closed and straightening up items that already looked painfully neat to Harry's eyes. The stiff, corpse-like Draco had disappeared, and in the middle of the mattress, well hidden under layers of blankets, was a sizeable lump. Harry took one look at the familiar sight and broke out in a grin.

"He's better!"

Madam Fox gave him a wry look. "How do you determine that, Mr. Potter?"

"The way he's sleeping. He always does that – curls up under the blankets to keep warm."

"Like a bear in a cave."

"More like a snake under a rock," Harry retorted, thinking of his beloved boa constrictor and the many nights he had spent pirating the heat from Harry's body.

Madam Fox chuckled. "It's the Malfoy in him. I always said that Lucius was more viper than human being."

Harry's first impulse was to shout a denial at her, to protest any hint that Draco resembled his Death Eater father, but he thought better of it in time. Madam Fox couldn't know how deeply Harry hated Lucius Malfoy or how painful it was to him to be reminded that such a man had produced the love of his life.

Swallowing his angry words, Harry asked, "May I go in and see him now?"

"All in good time."

"But…"

Dumbledore strode over to them, holding up a hand to silence Harry's protests. He had Snape and McGonagall on his heels, Snape looking sullen and McGonagall looking worried. Dumbledore was smiling his warmest smile, but his words sobered Harry instantly, reminding him how very far they were from home free.

"I can't let you into Mr. Malfoy's room until we go over a few ground rules, Harry."

"He could wake up any minute."

"Then I suggest you keep quiet and listen." Harry shut his mouth with a snap, and Dumbledore nodded his approval. "We've done everything we can to make the Room of Requirement feel safe and unthreatening, with no visible trace of what is passing outside it to disturb the mood inside. Madam Pomfrey has even covered the windows, so Draco will not know what time of day or year it is."

"He's going to know that he lost a lot of time."

"Certainly, but not in the first few minutes after he wakes. Those minutes are crucial, Harry. They may determine whether he recovers fully, comes back to himself, or retreats again. This means that _everything_ in his environment must feel safe. And everyone."

"So I have to be careful of what I say."

"And of what you do."

"That means," Snape interjected coldly, "don't try to kiss him. He can't fight you off with a Patronus this time."

Harry flushed angrily and pressed his lips together to hold in a furious retort. Snape was right, for all that he was doing his best to embarrass Harry, and it wouldn't help him any to get in a fight with the Potions Master. He'd only convince Dumbledore that he was too overwrought to be trusted around Draco.

"I'm not comfortable with this," Snape said to Dumbledore, his voice sour and his gaze sweeping Harry with disdain. "What if Potter gets carried away – _again_ – and does something stupid? I think one of us should be with Malfoy when he comes around."

"Harry knows as well as any of us what is at stake, here," Dumbledore said, soothingly. "He is the obvious choice."

"And if Malfoy has forgotten all about their… association?"

"Harry will know how to handle himself. Won't you, my boy?"

Harry nodded mutely.

Madam Fox stepped in, forestalling another comment from Snape, to say, "The important thing is to keep your head. Don't panic. And don't jump to conclusions based on the first words out of his mouth. Just talk to him, get a feel for his state of mind, and let him set the tone of your conversation. Understand?"

"I understand," Harry said, as calmly as he could manage with his stomach roiling and his palms sweating. Would they never shut up and let him go? Draco might wake up any second, and Harry had promised that he would be there for his archangel. He couldn't let him wake up alone. He couldn't let him retreat in fear when he found himself in a strange place with no one there to explain. He couldn't break his word to Draco, not ever, no matter what. "Is there anything else?"

Dumbledore shook his head and stepped aside, giving him a clear path to the door. "In you go. We'll watch from out here, and Madam Pomfrey will stay in the room with you. I'm afraid we can't give you much privacy until we're sure that Draco is himself."

Giving a quick nod, Harry crossed to the door in two strides and put his hand on the latch "_Lionheart_." It swung open under his hand, and Harry walked into the Room of Requirement.

With the drapes closed and the candles lit, the small room felt very cozy and sheltered, like the Gryffindor common room late on a winter evening. Harry almost expected to find a cup of hot chocolate steaming on the little table beside his chair, so powerful was the atmosphere in the room, and he supposed that Madam Pomfrey's wand had been doing more complex magic than the simple lighting of candles. The nurse faded back into the corner by the window as Harry came into the room, nodding her head to him and settling into a chair where she seemed to disappear into the shadows.

Harry moved quietly up to the bed, doing his best not to disturb the sleeping Draco, and pulled a chair up on the far side, where he could sit without blocking the watchers' view. Settling into the chair, he propped is elbows on the bed and his chin in his hands, and prepared to wait. He didn't have long. Draco was moving about under the blankets, getting ready to poke his head out of his sheltering cocoon and decide if he really wanted to be awake. Harry, who knew Draco's habits better than he did his own, could gauge to a nicety how long it would take the predictable Slytherin to show himself.

At exactly the moment Harry expected it, the coverlet moved, and a tousled head appeared, grey eyes blinking in the light. Harry held his breath and waited for Draco's sleep-bleared gaze to find him, fighting to control his own nervousness, to react with all the calm and control Dumbledore expected of him.

"Hallo, Malfoy," he said, and he was surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.

For a wonderful moment, as his eyes found Harry's face and came into focus, Draco's expression was soft and unguarded, full of the warmth of lingering sleep and something Harry dared to call gladness at finding the Gryffindor at his bedside. Harry had to remind himself, very firmly, that he had already misread Draco's expression once, to nearly fatal effect, and he mustn't allow his overeager imagination to run away with him. He could not assume that Draco remembered what they meant to each other until he heard it directly from Draco's mouth.

Grey eyes blinked sleepily at him. "Hallo, Potter. What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you to wake up," Harry answered, with a smile.

Very slowly, Draco turned onto his back and let his gaze drift about the room. His face became more guarded with every passing second, and a frown began to draw his brows together. "Where _is_ here?"

"The hospital wing."

"It doesn't look like the hospital wing."

Harry made a cautious stab at humor, saying playfully, "They gave you a private room. Someone must have warned them that Malfoys are contagious."

Draco did not respond to his bantering tone, only stared at him in growing doubt. "Something's wrong."

"You've been sick, that's all."

"I don't feel right. My head's all queer and…" He pulled his left hand from beneath the blanket, reaching to shove back his hair, and then he froze, eyes going wide and glazed with shock.

"Malfoy?"

"My hand." His voice sounded weirdly calm, but Harry was not fooled. He knew that sick, blind, white-faced look and knew what was coming.

"It's all right, Draco, I swear…"

"Where's my hand? What happened to it?" Pushing himself up on his elbows, he turned his horrified gaze on Harry and demanded, "What did you do, Potter! Hack it off _again!_"

A flood of relief so great it brought tears to his eyes went through Harry, and he gave a choked laugh. "No, it wasn't me."

"This isn't funny! _Where's my hand!_"

"Dumbledore has it."

"Why does Dumbledore have it? Why isn't it on my arm, where it belongs? What in bloody hell is going on here!"

"Just relax…" Harry began, while the sobbing, spasmodic laughter continued to shake him.

"I won't relax. I _won't!_ And stop that laughing, you ruddy idiot!"

Harry tried to swallow the unwanted sounds that rose in his throat to choke him, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I can't help it."

Draco sat up with a lurch. "_What's so damned funny!_"

"Nothing." Harry made a heroic effort to control himself, shifting forward in his chair to gaze at Malfoy with tearful intensity, his heart glowing in his eyes. "I'm not laughing at you, I swear. It's just so good to have you back!"

Draco threw him a wild, wide-eyed look, so clearly on the verge of hysteria that it sent a chill down Harry's spine. "Back from where? I don't understand." He held his truncated arm out to Harry and said, a frantic edge to his voice, "Why did you take it away? I was just learning to use it, and you were going to teach me to catch the snitch and… I need it, Harry. It's _mine_."

"I know." Harry looked at Draco for a moment, gnawing his lip and remembering the dire warnings Dumbledore and Madam Fox had given him. Then he mentally tossed them away and went with his impulse, with his heart, which he knew he could trust better than his mind.

Lurching out of his chair, he sat on the edge of the mattress beside Draco and caught the arm that was still held out toward him. At his touch, Draco collapsed like an unstrung puppet, his body falling against Harry's and his face turning into the hollow of the taller boy's shoulder. A shudder of relief went through him. Harry tightened his hold on the strangely fragile body in his arms and bent his head to rest his cheek against tangled silver-gilt hair.

After a long, quiet moment, Draco took a ragged breath and whispered, "I thought something was wrong. You just sat there, laughing, and didn't…"

"Forget about it, okay? I won't laugh anymore."

He shuddered again and whispered, "What's happening?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, honestly."

"Just how stupid do you think I am?" Draco demanded, with only a trace of his usual venom.

Harry felt another laugh rise in his throat at that, but he swallowed it before it could reach Draco's ears. His voice rough with threatened tears, he murmured, "I think you're a blithering idiot, and I love you for it. Oh God, Draco," his arms tightened around Draco's body, almost crushing him in his desperate relief, "I love you so much. I was so afraid I'd never get to do this again!"

An arm slipped around Harry's waist and returned the frantic pressure of his embrace. Draco turned his head, so that he lay more comfortably against Harry's shoulder and could speak without muffling his words in the other boy's robe. "You're not going to tell me what this is all about, are you?"

"I _can't_. Please, you just have to trust me and wait for Dumbledore. He'll explain about your hand and… everything."

"Dumbledore." Harry could hear the doubt in Draco's tone and feel the way he unconsciously shrank away from the implied threat in that name. "I'm in some kind of trouble, then?"

"Why do you say that?"

"The Headmaster never speaks to me, unless I'm about to be expelled or I'm about to die. Which is it this time?"

"Neither." Harry lifted a hand to push the snarled hair back from Draco's forehead, since his own free arm did not have the necessary parts to do it. Grey eyes frowned up into his, full of reproach and lurking dread. Meeting that troubled gaze squarely, Harry insisted, "You're not going to be expelled, and you're not going to die. You have my word on it."

"And mine," another voice said, bringing both boys' heads around with a start to find Dumbledore standing at the foot of the bed.

Harry had not heard Madam Pomfrey leave or Dumbledore come in, so absorbed was he in comforting Draco. He was glad to see Dumbledore, until he felt Draco pushing away from him and realized that the Slytherin would not allow Harry to hold him so intimately in front of the Headmaster. Letting go of Draco with the utmost reluctance, Harry stayed sitting on the bed, within arm's reach of the other boy in case Draco needed his support again.

Draco was struggling to look composed and dignified in front of a man he neither knew well nor trusted, and who overawed him by his mere presence. The best he could manage was stiff.

Dumbledore smiled at him, eyes twinkling. "I'm very glad to see you awake and feeling more yourself, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco swallowed nervously and held out his left arm toward the old wizard. "Harry says you took my hand."

"I did, but only for your protection. You may have it back when we're certain that you're on the mend."

"I'm fine." Draco faltered, his rigid manner slipping, and his eyes moved instinctively to find Harry. "At least, I think I am. I feel kind of… strange."

"That's not at all surprising," Dumbledore said. He sat down on the foot of the bed and turned a kindly, searching gaze on Draco. "The next few days are going to be difficult for you, Draco."

Draco flushed slightly at Dumbledore's use of his given name, and at the gentle note in his voice. Harry reached over and forcibly pulled Draco's right hand into his own lap, where he could lace his fingers through the other boy's and hold him tightly. Draco made one half-hearted attempt to pull away, then surrendered and let his hand lie in Harry's.

"You're going to grow very frustrated with us," Dumbledore went on, "and demand a number of answers that we cannot give you. I can only assure you that what we do now is for your own benefit, and when we think it's safe to do so, we will explain everything. I must ask you to be patient, to accept the answers we can give, and to trust us."

A mischievous smile danced in Dumbledore's eyes. "That's a tall order, I know, but you can begin with the easy part. Trust Harry."

"I do," Draco murmured through stiff, cold lips.

"Then you know that you have nothing to fear, as long as he is here."

Draco was breathing hard through his nose, his lips pressed into a tight line and his face unnaturally pale, even for him. Harry felt a tremor go through his fingers, then he clutched more fiercely at Harry's hand to steady them.

"He's telling you the truth, Draco," Harry said softly. "You're perfectly safe. We both are."

"What are you trying so hard not to tell me?" Draco hissed through clenched teeth.

"Ah. If we could tell you that, we would not have to try so hard, would we?" Dumbledore said, at his most droll.

"Don't… don't shrug me off that way! Don't treat me like…"

"Calm down, Mr. Malfoy." The jolly old ditherer was gone as swiftly as he'd come, leaving the awesome and deadly-serious wizard in his place. "You must keep hold of yourself, stay calm, or Madam Pomfrey will have to dose you with another sleeping potion."

Draco's face, so pale and so taut with strain that it barely appeared human, turned to Harry. His eyes were shuttered, blind with growing panic, and they cut Harry to the heart with a glance. "What in bleeding Hell is going on? What's happened that… that I can't remember? It's something dreadful. I can feel it. Tell me, Harry!"

"I can't tell you. I'm sorry."

Draco's face contracted with pain, and he started to turn away, but Harry stopped him with a hand against his cold cheek.

"But I promise you that I will, when you're well enough. And until then, you just have to believe that it doesn't matter now. It's over. You're here, with me, where you belong, and nothing else matters."

"I… I can't breathe…!"

Harry shot Dumbledore a frantic look and received a nod in answer. With an inward sigh of relief, Harry tightened his hold on Draco and drew him into a strong, sheltering embrace. Draco fought him for a moment, then let himself fall against Harry, both arms going around the other boy's waist and holding on for dear life. Harry wrapped his arms about Draco and closed his eyes, letting gratitude, warmth, and glittering golden wizard power course through him.

In the familiar heat of Harry's power, Draco began to relax. The rigidity drained from him, his clasp around Harry's waist became less desperate, and his breathing grew more even.

"Draco?"

At the sound of Dumbledore's voice, Draco tried to pull free of Harry's arms, but the other boy did not let him go this time. After only a brief struggle, Draco subsided, leaning heavily against Harry and still holding him tightly.

"There is one question I must ask you," the Headmaster said. "Do you know what day it is?"

Draco thought about that for a long minute, then murmured, "No."

"Make a guess."

"It's… January," he ventured. "Slytherin played Ravenclaw. We lost. But that was nearly a week ago, so…" Once again, his thought died out unfinished, and his brows drew together in a pained frown. "But if I've been out of it for a while… How long have I been sick?"

"You have been ill for some days, Mr. Malfoy, but you've forgotten more than that. I don't want to alarm you, and I don't want you to worry about the missing time, but you need to know before you speak to anyone else or even look out the window." He paused, gazing intently at Draco, then said, "It is now the end of March."

Draco stiffened in Harry's arms, and Harry promptly sent a fresh surge of wizarding power through him.

"That's impossible."

"It is, however, quite true."

"But, I can't… I mean, where have I… Harry?"

"It's okay, Draco. Trust me." Sending yet more power coursing into the other boy, Harry threw every ounce of certainty he possessed into his voice and urged, "Trust me!"

"Tell me the truth!"

"I am. The absolute, unvarnished, God's-honest truth. It's the beginning of third term, it's spring, the snow has melted, and Slytherin has lost another Quidditch game. I'm sorry, but there's no way you can win the Cup, now."

"I don't give a damn about the bloody Quidditch Cup!"

"Now I know you're sick."

"Stop it!" Draco gasped, his body once again trembling with the force of his rising panic. "Tell me where I've been, why I can't remember… Harry! _Harry!_"

This time, Harry did not look to Dumbledore for permission. Instead, he ducked his head to avoid the Headmaster's gaze, tightened his hold on Draco, and murmured into the soft tangle of his hair, "Terrible things happened, Draco, things too dreadful to bear, and we erased your memory of them so they couldn't hurt you. Professor Dumbledore has some of those memories in a Pensieve, and when your Healer says you're strong enough to stand it, I'll take you into them and show you what happened. But until then, you _have to trust me_. You can't remember, and I can't tell you about it. That hole in your memory – that queer, empty feeling in your head – is the only thing allowing you to stay well. And I have to keep you well, Draco, I _have to!_"

Draco had stopped shaking, and even through his own distress, Harry could tell that he was hearing, understanding, possibly even accepting what Harry said. He lay very still against Harry's chest, his face turned into the taller boy's shoulder, poised but not tense, listening. Harry lifted a hand to clasp his head. The mingled fear and gratitude in him – fear at the possibility of losing Draco to madness again and gratitude at the feel of that adored body in his arms after so long – filled his chest and clogged his throat, thickening his words with tears and making his heart knock painfully against his ribs.

"Please believe me, Draco. Please understand. I'll go mad if I lose you again."

For a long moment, Draco said nothing. Then, at last, he whispered, "I believe you."

Harry let his breath out in a gasping sob.

Another long pause, then Draco added, his voice sounding hollow and dull, "I won't ask any questions, and I'll try to be patient." He lifted his head and drew slightly away from Harry without actually breaking his hold, his eyes turning to Dumbledore. "But I want my hand back."

Dumbledore nodded affably. "Tomorrow, if you're still improving. In the meantime, I want your Healer to have a look at you."

Draco frowned at that, but he said nothing as the old wizard started for the door.

"I'll send her in."

Harry stayed where he was, perched on the edge of the bed with Draco still lying against him, wondering how Madam Fox would react to his presence. And how Draco would react to Madam Fox. He didn't have long to ponder either of these questions, however. Almost before Dumbledore was through the door, the Healer was moving past him into the smaller room, striding across to the bed, her lime green robes snapping forcefully with each step.

Draco stared at her, aghast, for the space of a breath, then pulled away from Harry and sat bolt upright in the bed. "Auntie Genie!"

"Hullo, Nevvy."

A delighted smile blossomed across Draco's pale face, transforming it in an instant. But in the next breath, he faltered, his eyes sliding sideways to Harry and his smile fading. Harry sensed, rather than saw, him withdrawing from the support he had clung to so fiercely just moments before.

Draco shot Madam Fox a doubtful look and demanded, "What are you doing here?"

"Taking care of my favorite nephew," she replied, eyes searching his face as she drew up beside the bed. "But if you mean to play the high-and-mighty Malfoy with me, I'll save these old bones the trouble and take myself back to London."

Draco smiled sheepishly, though his eyes remained dark and troubled. "Sorry, Auntie. You know I'm glad to see you."

Harry smiled too, warmed by the current of affection that flowed between them. He could see a lot of Draco in the old witch – the lurking humor in her gaze, the way her smile curled up one side of her mouth and made her eyes dance wickedly, the way she lifted one elegant eyebrow when she said something teasing – though their faces looked nothing alike. And for once, Harry was pleased at the family resemblance he found.

Madam Fox chuckled and kissed Draco on the cheek, accidentally brushing the raw brand as she did so. Draco gave a hiss of pain and recoiled. Then he reached up with his right hand to touch the sore spot, fingering it gingerly.

"Ouch! What have I got on my face?"

"Take your hands off it, dratted boy," Madam Fox chided, slapping at his hand.

Draco looked mutinous. "Fetch me a mirror! I want to see it!"

"I'm not your house elf, and I won't be ordered about in that cheeky way. Hold still, now, and let me have a look at you."

To Harry's surprise, Draco made no further protest and allowed Madam Fox to lift his chin with one hand, turning his head from side to side, a thoughtful frown pulling her eyebrows together. "You're on the mend, no question, but still a trifle tender, here and there, eh? Wounds a bit raw? Well, time will take care of that." Her gaze flicked to Harry's face, and she smiled. "Time and proper attention."

Draco caught the quick exchange and threw Harry a startled look of his own. "Auntie Genie…"

"Hmm?" she grunted, absently, as she pulled out her wand, her mind still on her work and her gaze fixed on his face.

"Do you know about me and Harry?"

Her eyes twinkled at him, and the familiar smile tilted her lips. "The whole blessed wizarding world knows about you and Harry, my dear."

Draco flushed under her amused gaze. "Oh." He hesitated, then ventured, "It doesn't bother you?"

All trace of humor abruptly left her face. She looked narrowly at Draco and snapped, "What bothers me is the thought of you living in that house with Lucius and Narcissa, learning to hate and kill at the Dark Lord's whim. I couldn't get you out, couldn't make you see where they were leading you, but Harry Potter did." She winked at Draco, her face softening. "Anyone who can make a Malfoy see reason is all right in my book."

Her manner turning brisk again in an instant, she leveled her wand to point at Draco's nose and said, "Now close your mouth and let me get on with my work, young man."

Harry, who had kept his head down to hide the embarrassment in his face, heard the Healer mutter a spell and saw a flash of reddish light from the corner of his eyes. Draco's right hand lay in his lap, and at the touch of Madam Fox's spell, his fingers clutched convulsively at the blanket. Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, then threw caution to the wind and reached over to cover Draco's hand with his. This time Draco did not pull away. Instead, he turned his hand under Harry's and returned the pressure of his fingers.

They sat together on the bed, hands linked, unmoving, through the Healer's examination. She cast a handful of different spells, asked Draco a few simple questions, muttered to herself a good deal, and occasionally worried Harry by frowning or pursing her lips. But when she finished, she had a smile on her face and a look of satisfaction in the gaze that rested on Draco.

"You're doing very well, my dear. You know that we performed a kind of memory charm on you?" Draco nodded. "Well, it's done the trick, for all that we didn't go as deep into your memory as I would have liked. You're a bit raw yet, as I said, but you'll mend, so long as you do what you're told and don't go prying into things better left forgotten."

She waited for Draco to respond to this, but he only stared at her in white-faced silence, his hand holding very tightly to Harry's. With a quick nod, Madam Fox shoved her wand into her pocket and leaned over to plant another kiss on Draco's cheek, being careful to avoid the brand this time.

"I'll be back tomorrow. I want to see that marvelous hand of yours in action."

"I can have it? I'm well enough?" Draco asked, the crack in his voice betraying his fear.

"We'll see tomorrow. Until then, you stay in that bed and rest. Mr. Potter, I expect you to see to it that he obeys my orders."

With that, she headed for the door, not waiting for an answer from either of the boys.

Draco watched her knock on the door, watched it swing open under Dumbledore's hand and then close again, leaving them alone in the room. Then he flopped back against the pillow and sighed.

"Stay in bed, rest, do as you're told… They're going to drive me mad, the lot of them. Since when does Dumbledore give a bloody damn about me? And you…" He turned to look at Harry. His eyes widened, as he truly saw the Gryffindor for the first time and absorbed what he saw. "You look ruddy awful, Harry."

Harry grinned tiredly at him, feeling exhaustion wash sickeningly over him in the wake of all the excitement. "Thanks."

"When was the last time you slept?"

"I don't want to think about it."

"You're the one who needs nursing and mothering, not me. Why don't you get some rest?"

"I would love to, but I'm not leaving this room. Not until I'm sure you're all right."

Draco looked annoyed at that. "I don't need another nursemaid, and I didn't say anything about leaving." Sliding toward the far edge of the bed, he slapped the mattress and said, "Come on, you Gryffindor git."

Harry felt a rush of longing go through him. The thought of lying down in that warm bed, resting his head on that soft pillow and closing his eyes, with Draco close beside him, was so unbearably beautiful that it made his chest ache. But they were not alone, no matter how isolated the room seemed, and one or more of Draco's nursemaids were standing at that magical window this very minute, watching them. What would Madam Pomfrey do, if she saw Harry climb into Draco's bed? Or worse yet, Snape?

He looked nervously at the blank wall that concealed the watchers, then down at Draco. The other boy was gazing steadily at him, a lurking doubt in his eyes that gave the lie to his acerbic manner. He might snap and gripe at Harry, but he was, underneath the Malfoy mask, still deeply frightened. Uncertain. Waiting for Harry to put his mind at ease and show him that nothing had changed between them.

Mentally consigning Madam Pomfrey and Snape and anyone else who might be watching to the devil, Harry kicked off his shoes, shrugged out of his robe and put his glasses on the cluttered bedside table. Then he swung his feet onto the bed and burrowed under the blankets, sighing as his head hit the pillow. He turned to look at the boy beside him. Draco lay propped up on his left elbow, gazing down at Harry through a tangle of silver-gilt hair, and from this close, Harry could see the question in his face even without his glasses.

Harry smiled. "Are you tired?"

"No."

Without another word, Draco lay down and wrapped his whole arm around Harry's waist. His head settled naturally into the hollow of Harry's shoulder, and his leg twined around the other boy's. Warmth and contentment flowed through Harry, easing weeks of pain and despair, driving the coldness from his innards, the ache of exhaustion from his limbs and the shadows from his heart. It didn't matter to him what tomorrow might bring, what challenges they both faced in the delicate task of bringing Draco back to full health. For tonight, for this brief, magical time, he was whole.

"Harry?"

The soft voice jolted him out of the first, blissful currents of sleep and snapped his eyes open. He felt a sickening lurch of alarm, then he felt the weight resting against him and the familiar body in his arms, and alarm turned to relief.

"Hmm?" he grunted, too tired and happy to bestir himself to speak.

"I need to ask you a question."

"I probably can't answer it," he said, with a huge yawn.

"It's about Auntie Genie. Do you know where she works?"

Harry came fully awake at that. "Yes," he ventured cautiously. "St. Mungo's, isn't it?"

"She's the head of the Spell Damage ward."

"I… might have heard that."

"So what is the wizarding world's leading expert on spell damage doing at Hogwarts?"

"Taking care of you."

"But why her? Why not old Pomfrey? She can fix anything – anything a Hogwarts student could possibly do to himself, anyway." Lifting his head, Draco propped his chin on Harry's chest and looked up at him, holding Harry's bleary green gaze with his own piercing grey one. "Just how sick was I, Harry?"

Harry unconsciously reached out to touch a bright strand of hair falling past Draco's cheek. "It was awful," he said in a hollow whisper. "I've never been so frightened, even when I met Voldemort face-to-face. I thought you were going to die or leave me forever, and I couldn't go with you. That's all I wanted, Draco… to go with you…"

"But I didn't go anywhere. I'm right here."

"Yes."

Harry slid his hand around Draco's head, clasping it and pulling it toward him. Draco obediently shifted closer, just as Harry raised his own head from the pillow. Their lips touched and clung together for a brief, ecstatic moment. Silver and gold flames flickered and danced behind Harry's closed eyelids, rushed through his body, filling him with heat, longing and love more potent than anything he had ever felt before.

He sighed and opened his eyes, as Draco pulled slightly away. They looked at each other, their faces so close together that Harry could feel the warmth of Draco's breath on his skin and see the reflection of candle flames in his eyes.

"I love you," Harry whispered huskily, "so much."

Draco did not answer him, but Harry saw in his winter-grey eyes the words he wouldn't speak and smiled.

"Go to sleep," Draco murmured.

Harry obediently lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Draco rested his head in the hollow of Harry's shoulder and tightened an arm about his waist, his body going pliant and soft in Harry's embrace. In a moment, Harry slept, a smile still lingering on his lips.

**_To be continued…_**

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**Author's Note**: Well, there you have it. I knew I couldn't please everyone with this chapter, since Draco either had to remember or not, with no middle ground. But I hope that those who didn't get their way on that head enjoyed the chapter, just the same. :) We're almost done with this story – two more chapters to go – but Story Number Three is in the works, and it is chock-full of lovely, lovely angst, so those who are disappointed that Draco remembers, do not despair! Voldemort isn't done with our boys yet.

Thank you again for all your comments, reviews and encouragement! They mean the world to me and make it possible for me to keep writing through the rough spots!

Claire


	14. Archangel Rising

**Author's Note:** Thank you again for all your comments and reviews. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. Enjoy! -- Claire

**Chapter 13: _Archangel Rising_**

The mirror had appeared during the night. It hung on the wall opposite his bed, large and ornate, like something out of a fairy tale – or the gothic imagination of Hogwarts Castle. Draco had long since stopped thinking of the castle as an inanimate heap of stone. It had an awareness, sometimes malevolent, that watched and weighed everything that passed within its walls. This little room was a perfect example. The Room of Requirement, they called it, but Draco suspected that it was really just an elaborate joke played by the castle on the hapless wizards that stumbled into it, giving them toys to play with so it could laugh at their silly games.

He stood in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of a stranger, wondering if the castle took some kind of perverse pleasure in the present state of affairs. Merlin knew, it had watched him preen in front of its mirrors often enough, probably chuckled to think of his fragile vanity and how easily it might be crushed. Now it had given him his own, private mirror in which to contemplate the ruin of his face.

His eyes moved to the half-healed, livid burn on his cheek, and horror writhed like a bundle of snakes in his stomach. He lifted a crystalline finger to touch it and felt the pain, as if from a long distance, throb beneath his skin. Until today, he had not seen the wound on his face, only traced its outlines when he secretly fingered it in the darkness. He had felt the swelling go slowly down and the dull burn of infection fade, but he could not tell its shape – until he saw it in the mirror this morning and finally understood why they had all gone to such lengths to hide it from him.

He wore the Malfoy monogram burned into his face. A brand. A mark that would never completely fade. After years of glaring at Harry's scar and envying the attention it brought him, Draco now had a scar of his own to wear for the rest of his life, but what kind of attention would _this_ scar garner for him? Not fame, certainly. Or adoration, or envy, or approval. No, this was a mark of shame, like the brands burned into the faces of thieves and beggars after they had sat the night in the stocks.

Had he spent a night in the stocks, in some benighted village, where Medieval justice had never died? Was that what Dumbledore and Harry didn't want him to remember? Maybe he'd damaged his hand trying to tear through the iron locks that held him…

Lifting his hand, he spread its remaining fingers and stared through them at the stranger in the mirror. The horror twisted in his stomach again, more viciously than before, and Draco was briefly glad that he had skipped lunch. The two outer fingers were gone, nothing left but stumps, polished smooth by Dumbledore's magic. But how? The Headmaster had told him that adamant was virtually indestructible. What weapon could cut off his fingers? What weight crush them? What power destroy them?

His mind shied away from that thought, and he dropped his hand, bunching it into a fist. He had spent much of this week trying not to think too hard about his missing fingers. They, like the brand on his face and the lock on his door, started the fear churning in him until all he could think of was running. Hiding. Closing his eyes and screaming to drown out the sound of his own panic.

Just what he feared, he had no idea. It was lost in the yawning blackness that had swallowed two months of his life, but it was not gone. No. It definitely still lived somewhere inside him, awaiting its chance to leap out of the shadows and sink its claws into his quivering flesh. Harry kept it at bay. Auntie Genie. Even Dumbledore, odd as that seemed to him. When they were not with him, he retreated to the cushioned window seat provided by the Room of Requirement and watched sunlight and shadow creep across the Hogwarts grounds, watched and waited and tried not to think, until night fell and the stars came out. Then he could lose himself in their beauty and feel something close to whole for a while.

The Room had given him a comfortable place to sit, widened the window and deepened the embrasure a good deal, encouraging him to withdraw behind the velvet drapes and sit there by the hour. As far from the oh-so-polite but very-firmly-locked door as possible. Perhaps the Room thought this haven a fair exchange for his freedom. Perhaps it was right.

Draco had the urge to retreat into the window embrasure now, to escape the mirror, but he controlled it and made himself stare down his reflection in stubborn silence. He was afraid of a lot of things he didn't understand right now, but he was not afraid of this. Not of his own face.

He was better off, he told himself, knowing what he had become. He made himself look long and dispassionately at the purple hollows around his eyes, the lines cut into the corners of his down-turned mouth and between his frowning brows, the shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones, the brand. This is what his classmates would see when he stepped out that door for the first time today. This is what Harry saw that made his eyes go dark and sad, that made his voice roughen with awkward tenderness every time he looked at Draco.

He leaned closer to the mirror and fingered the brand on his cheek again, scowling at his reflection as he tried to distance himself from the shame and pain of wearing this ugly thing. He knew what his classmates would say about it. They would be no more understanding of his scar than they were of his shift in loyalties or his attachment to Harry.

_Look at the filthy little Death Eater! _

He could hear their jeering voices in his ears already.

_Did you ever think Draco Malfoy could sink any lower? Now he's trying to_ _mimic his hero-lover by parading around with that hideous thing on his face! Bet You-Know-Who did it, to remind him what he really is. Bet Potter can't even stand to touch it._

What if Voldemort had given him the scar? Draco wondered. What if Harry couldn't bear to touch it – to touch _him_ – now that he wore the Dark Lord's brand on his face? Or was it someone else who had marked him this way? Only one other person came to mind, but Draco couldn't bear to think that his own father would do this to him, so he resolutely thrust that notion aside, along with the question of how he'd damaged his hand and why Dumbledore kept him locked in this room.

So many things he could not face. So many questions he could not ask. And always, the yawning hole at his feet, gaping wider with every day that passed, with every scrap of information he gleaned from thoughtless comments dropped in his hearing and the evidence of his sharp eyes. It seemed that the more he learned, the more obvious the hole in his memory became, until he marveled that it did not swallow him up, body and soul.

The low hum of voices outside the door warned Draco that his privacy was about to be invaded and jerked him mentally back from that dark edge. He unconsciously drew himself up, his eyes shuttering and his face hardening, the haughty Malfoy mask firmly in place by the time the door swung open. Then he heard a familiar tread on the marble floor and relaxed even before he turned to look. It was Harry. At last.

"Hallo, Malfoy!" Harry called, as he blew into the room, bringing the smell of green things and cold wind with him. He exuded so much energy and eagerness that Draco felt instantly tired. "Sorry I'm late. Practice ran long, and I had to take that hensbane root back to Professor Sprout. It was starting to grow purple fuzz from sitting in the leeching solution too long."

Draco gave him a blank look. "What hensbane root?"

"Never mind." Harry flopped down on the foot of the bed and leaned back on his hands. His cheeks glowed red from the cold, and his eyes shone with happiness as they rested on Draco's face. "Ready to go?"

"I suppose so." Draco heard the note of reluctance in his own voice and felt his face harden again. He tried to shake off his growing dread, to smile, to find a measure of Harry's boisterous enthusiasm, but the best he could manage was a rather tepid smile that made his mouth go all crooked.

Harry abruptly stood up and crossed to where he stood. Chill, callused hands dropped to his shoulders, tugging gently, then he found himself close in the circle of Harry's arms, looking doubtfully up at him.

"You're cold," Draco pointed out.

"I've been flying for hours in a stiff wind."

"Maybe we should stay inside. Hot chocolate and wizarding chess."

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him, clearly amused by his hopeful tone, and shook his head. "Dumbledore said fresh air. I distinctly heard him. _Mr. Malfoy needs some fresh air. A nice stroll about the grounds, perhaps._ He was standing right here when he said it."

"And of course Perfect Bloody Potter never disobeys the Headmaster."

"Of course not." Harry grinned and dropped a chilly kiss on his lips. "I'm much too respectable for that."

"I don't have a cloak," Draco grumped, "or gloves or anything to tie my hair back with."

"We'll run by the Slytherin dungeon and get your cloak. You can put your hands in your pockets to keep warm – or in _my_ pockets, if you prefer. And I like your hair this way." Harry reached up to twist a long, silver-blond lock about his finger.

"It blows in my face and gets in my mouth."

"You're just a mass of charm today, aren't you?"

Draco knew that he meant it teasingly, but Harry's words stung anyway, and he pulled out of his arms. "Excuse me if I don't relish parading myself about the school looking like this."

"Like what?"

Throwing Harry a fierce glare, he flung out a hand toward the mirror in a dramatic gesture that would have made his father proud. "Like a starveling ghost!"

Harry almost laughed. Draco could see it shining in his eyes, threatening to spill over. But one glance at Draco's face sobered him instantly, and whatever dig about vanity had been hovering on the tip of his tongue died unspoken. He regarded Draco thoughtfully for a long moment, then said, quietly, "Would it help if I told you that I think you look as gorgeous as ever?"

Draco lifted his adamant hand to touch the burn on his cheek. "Even with this?"

Harry sighed, and the familiar look of yearning sadness darkened his eyes. "Yes. Even with that."

"Bloody liar."

Shaking his head, Harry grabbed Draco's arm and pulled him close. Draco remained stiff and unyielding, though it cost him a fierce struggle to do it when he felt Harry's arms go around him.

"You recognized it," Harry murmured.

"How could I not? I've got that M stitched and stamped and carved into every blasted thing I own."

"It will fade, you know. And you'll get used to seeing it there. You won't notice so much." He smiled crookedly. "Trust me. I know about these things."

"It's not the same, Harry. Your scar made you famous. What does this one make me?"

He knew, by the look on Harry's face, that the Gryffindor did not have an answer for that – or not one he was willing to voice aloud, at any rate.

"Come on," he said, dully, as he once more drew out of Harry's embrace. "If we're going to do Dumbledore's royal bidding, we may as well get on with it."

"Don't you want to get out of this little room?" Harry asked.

Draco cast a look at the door from the corners of his eyes, unwilling to face it squarely, and felt the ball of snakes in his stomach writhe again. "I suppose so."

"Dumbledore will give you your own password, if you ask him."

Draco said nothing to that, but followed Harry across the room with reluctant steps.

Harry spoke his password to the door and swung it open. Draco hesitated for a split second, willing his stomach to stay down and his feet to move, then he stepped firmly across the threshold. He found himself in the main ward of the hospital wing, empty but for the row of white beds, lit by the sunlight streaming through the windows on the opposite wall. All around the door, the beds had been cleared away, leaving a wide, bare space that seemed wrong to him. He turned back to look at the door and found himself staring into his own room through what ought to have been solid stone.

"What's this?" he demanded of Harry, his voice sharp with surprise.

"Dumbledore's magic. It turns the wall transparent from one side."

"They've been watching me all this time?"

"I told you that you were never really alone in there."

Draco frowned at the magical window, not entirely sure how he felt about this development. On the one hand, he felt vaguely smirched by the thought that Pomfrey, Dumbledore, _anyone_ could have been watching him without his knowledge. On the other hand, they hadn't disturbed him. They had even let Harry sleep in his bed. So what harm did the window do, really? Deep down in his squirming innards, he felt an unaccustomed glow of warmth – he was tempted to say of gratitude – that they had not left him completely alone.

"There shouldn't be too many people about," Harry commented, as he started for the main door. "Saturday afternoon everyone's probably studying."

"Only Hermione Granger studies on a Saturday," Draco retorted automatically.

He trailed after Harry, catching him up in the corridor just outside the hospital wing. It was easier to step through the main door than it had been through his own, and he took heart from that. He gazed around at the portraits and suits of armor with the beginnings of a smile on his face, glad to see them again and reassured to find them unchanged. Two or three of the portraits even nodded a greeting to him as he passed.

At the top of the main staircase, Draco looked down into the entrance hall and saw a wide swath of sunlight cut across the marble floor from the open front doors. His spirits rose at the sight, and he went quickly down the stairs, some of his old grace and sureness in his step. Pausing in the middle of the hall, he turned to face the doors and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth on his face and the smells that spilled in with the light. It was the same smell that clung to Harry's clothes. Spring.

"Let's grab your cloak," Harry said, and he headed for the dungeon.

Draco turned to follow him, took a handful of steps, and then froze. In that instant, he felt as if every drop of blood in his body had poured out of him, leaving him shaking and sick, his hands and feet turned to ice, without the strength to move. He stared at the gaping maw of the dungeons, fighting down panic, and croaked, "Harry!"

Harry halted and glanced back at Draco. His brows snapped together in a frown, and he started back toward him. "What's wrong?"

He could not possibly explain his fear to Harry; he didn't understand it himself. He only knew that no power on earth would persuade him to step into that dreadful, black mouth.

"Draco?" Harry said, his voice sharpening in concern, his hand closing around Draco's arm.

"I don't need my cloak," he rasped out.

"Don't be a prat. You're always cold…"

Draco pulled free of his clasp and took a step backward. "I don't need it." He tore his eyes away from the lurking threat of the dungeons and started for the main doors. "Let's go."

Harry did not answer him for a moment and did not follow. Draco could feel his eyes boring into his back, reading the full depth of his panic, understanding things Draco did not, remembering things Draco had forgotten, _knowing_ what was wrong and unable to tell him.

"I'll get it for you."

Harry's words halted Draco in his tracks. He spun around just in time to see the other boy disappear into that dread darkness. As he moved down the steps, Harry turned to glance back, and his face was ghostly white in the shadows.

"Harry, no! _Don't!_" But Harry did, and before the shout of protest had left Draco's lips, Harry was gone. Draco took a gasping breath and staggered back against the nearest wall, his legs suddenly unable to support him. Bent nearly double, he wrapped his arms around his midriff and fought down nausea, eyes screwed shut against that lingering image of Harry being swallowed by the yawning mouth of the dungeon.

Steps… leading down… darkness and stone walls… a ghostly-pale face looking up one last time as it vanished into the ground…

He saw these things behind his closed eyelids, saw Harry going down the steps, but the images kept sliding out of focus, tangling up in his head with something else. Something he couldn't remember but that he felt down in his gut, like a spike through his body. He heard someone keening in pain – a low, animal noise – and it was not until he heard the someone mutter Harry's name that he realized he was making that awful noise himself. He bit down hard on his tongue and tasted blood. The sounds stopped.

The slap of rubber soles on marble forced his head up, and he watched a familiar figure approach him through a blotchy haze of nausea and panic. Harry. The panic faded as Harry drew closer to him, and Draco took a deep breath, willing away the sickness. He pushed himself upright to meet the Gryffindor with some semblance of dignity, even venturing a step or two away from the wall, grateful that his legs held him up. His hand was almost steady when he held it out for the cloak Harry carried over his arm.

Harry handed him the cloak, frowning, his eyes dark with worry. "Are you all right?"

Draco nodded and swung the cloak about his shoulders, using this piece of business to avoid the other boy's troubled gaze. He tried to fasten the silver clasp at his throat, but between the tremor in his flesh-and-blood fingers and the lack of feeling in his adamant ones, he could not manage it. Harry did not let him fumble with it for more than a few seconds before he brushed his hands away and fastened it himself.

"Maybe we should go back upstairs," Harry suggested, as he moved his hands from Draco's throat to his shoulders and made as if to pull him closer. "We could have that hot chocolate and play some chess."

"No." Draco turned abruptly for the outer doors, ignoring Harry's attempt to hold him, and strode toward the promise of freedom and sunlight without a backward glance. He lengthened his stride until he was nearly running as he took the wide, stone steps down to the carriageway. When he felt gravel under his feet, he came to a halt, head up, eyes closed, basking in the touch of the sun on his face. Deep, deep inside him, a cold knot of fear loosened, and as he let the air out of his lungs, he fancied he was exhaling dread and despair with it. He felt suddenly, unaccountably lighter, and when Harry stepped up beside him, he smiled at the other boy.

Green eyes looked deeply into his own, and for the first time in a week, Draco saw a glimmer of happiness in them. Harry looped an arm about his shoulders; Draco settled against him with barely a second's hesitation.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, "I should never have brought you anywhere near the dungeons."

"You know why I lost it like that." It was not a question, but Harry answered anyway with a nod of his head. "And you aren't going to tell me."

"Not yet."

Draco didn't bother to argue. He knew by now just how stubborn Harry could be when it came to keeping secrets and doing Dumbledore's bidding. And if he'd needed a reminder of how important their silence was to his mental well-being, the sweat cooling on his face and the tell-tale churning in his stomach would serve.

He let himself rest against Harry for a long moment, enjoying the combined sense of wide, windswept openness and the shelter of familiar arms around him. He was cold, even in his heavy cloak, but for once he didn't mind. The bite of the wind brought stinging color to his cheeks and made him feel more alive than he had in… well, in longer than he could remember.

"We'd better move, before you freeze solid," Harry said, laughter in his voice.

"That's all right. I have my very own warming pan to snuggle up to, later."

"If you think I'm going to get into the same bed with feet that cold…"

"What?" Draco grinned up at him, privately delighting at the flare of heat in those incredibly frank, unguarded eyes. "I'm mad?"

"Completely mental," Harry agreed.

They both moved in the same instant, Draco lifting his head and Harry stooping, until their lips touched and clung together. The warmth of Harry's kiss burned through Draco with excruciating swiftness, melting his body and his resistance in the space of a breath. He turned in Harry's arms and slipped his own around the other boy's waist, holding him urgently, straining upward to deepen the kiss. Harry obligingly tightened his clasp, nearly lifting Draco from his feet and bringing their mouths still more firmly together. Draco freed one arm and flung it around Harry's neck, adamant fingers sinking into messy black hair, and Draco wished, in that moment, that he could crawl up Harry's taller frame, crawl bodily into his arms, and lose himself forever in the incandescent, gold-shot pleasure of that kiss.

When Harry at last let him go, settling him gently back onto _terra firma_, Draco kept his hand behind the other boy's head and looked up at him from beneath drooping eyelids. "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to do that again."

"After seeing that magical window of Dumbledore's, you can guess why I've been so discreet," Harry retorted. "Besides, you haven't exactly been in the mood."

"It seems I'm in the mood now."

"So I noticed. You also happen to be standing right outside the castle, in full view of several hundred windows."

"That didn't stop _you_." Harry chuckled, and Draco smiled up at him, his heart shining in his eyes but carefully veiled behind silver-white lashes. "Being outside makes me reckless. I feel as though I can finally breathe again, and I don't know what to do with all this lovely oxygen."

"Let's walk for a bit, and I'm sure something will come to you. Or, in a pinch, we can fall back on the old standby."

Harry's smile told Draco exactly which 'old standby' he meant, and he knew a brief, violent urge to drag Harry behind the nearest shrub and have his way with him. Instead, he let Harry drop his arms and step away without so much as a flicker of disappointment showing in his face. When Harry slipped his hand into Draco's, the Slytherin returned the welcome pressure of his fingers and fell into step beside him, to all outward appearances perfectly satisfied with this arrangement.

It occurred to Draco, as he walked beside Harry down a long, sloping sweep of grass, that only a week ago – no, two months ago – he would not have allowed the other boy to hold his hand this way. But over the last several days, shut up in the Room of Requirement, haunted by the blank spaces in his memory and the fragments of emotion that spilled unbidden from them, alone with fears he could neither explain nor reason away, he had come to depend on the simple comfort of clasped hands. He had no desire to pull away from Harry's touch and no suspicion that the gesture was an empty one.

By silent agreement, they made for the eaves of the Forbidden Forest, where they were least likely to meet any of their classmates. Harry took the long way around the castle, past the Whomping Willow, to avoid the Quidditch pitch where the Ravenclaw team was practicing for next week's match. They reached the outlying trees of the forest without encountering another soul and turned northward, in the general direction of Hagrid's hut.

Draco was glad to be outside, invigorated by the chill air and vibrant smells of the forest, but he was also disgracefully weak after so many days shut up in his tiny room. His legs felt increasingly heavy, and he lagged behind Harry until the other boy was half-pulling him along. He was about to suggest that they stop for a rest when he heard the crunch of feet on brittle grass and saw a flash of red through the trees – a pair of ginger heads sticking out of shabby black cloaks. Weasleys.

Harry stopped and shot Draco a slightly nervous glance.

Draco felt the sudden tension in Harry and tried to pull his hand free of his clasp, to put some physical distance between them and defuse the situation, but Harry tightened his fingers around Draco's hard enough to hurt. Draco obeyed the silent command, remaining close at Harry's side, their hands still twined together, as Ron and Ginny Weasley walked up to them.

No one spoke for an uncomfortable minute, while Ron stood with his hands buried in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, and Ginny stared fixedly at something over Harry's left shoulder. Then Ron cleared his throat and said, with a nod of greeting, "Harry. Malfoy."

Draco returned the nod. "Weasley." His eyes cut over to Ginny's face, and he amended, "Weas_leys_."

"Hallo, Malfoy," Ginny said, a determined smile plastered on her face and a brittle, overly-cheerful edge to her voice. "They let you out, I see."

Draco controlled the urge to snap 'brilliant deduction, Weaselby' and contented himself with another nod.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yes." He hesitated, then added, "Thanks."

Harry's surprise was almost palpable, and Draco felt a small spurt of satisfaction at having confounded his expectations this way.

"What're you two doing out here?" Harry asked hastily, before this cautious truce could be shattered by some thoughtless remark on Draco's or Ron's part.

"Tea with Hagrid," Ron answered. His eyes narrowed, but whether with laughter or annoyance, Draco couldn't tell. "He was hoping you'd come, Harry, and he started blubbering when he saw that it was just us. I had to eat three of those ruddy awful scones of his to cheer him up."

"Three?" Harry demanded. "And you can still walk?"

"There are plenty left for you."

"Er…" Harry cast a wary, sideways glance at Draco.

The Slytherin stared intently at a tree branch hanging a foot above Ron Weasley's head, refusing to meet Harry's eyes or give him any hint of his thoughts. The last thing he wanted to do today was sit in the gamekeeper's foul little hut, sipping tea and breaking his teeth on concrete scones, but he would be damned if he'd tell Harry that. Sweet, stubborn Harry so desperately wanted Draco to get along with his friends – or at least stop trying to verbally knife them in the back – and so obviously doubted that he could, that even the smallest effort at courtesy on Draco's part took him utterly by surprise. This reaction was both endearing and infuriating, giving Draco the perfect opportunity to please him with little trouble while telling him that his lover expected only the worst from him. Well, badly as he wanted Harry to himself, he was _not_ going to be held responsible for keeping him away from his friends. Even that great oaf, Hagrid.

"If you _don't_ want to be waylaid and force-fed scones," Ron interjected, almost as if he sensed Draco's dilemma and wanted to help, "you'd better give his hut a wide berth."

Draco threw him a sharp, considering look, weighing his motives. Harry grinned shamefacedly at him and muttered, "Thanks. Hey, where's Hermione, anyway?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Where do you think? The last time I stuck my head in the library, I couldn't even see her over the stacks of books. She's spread out over three tables."

Draco did not say 'I told you so,' but he did smirk in a superior way that made Harry laugh.

"Has she color-coded your notes yet?"

"She would if I let her see them," Ron said, grinning back at Harry. "Well." His smile faded, and his shoulders hunched visibly as he drew in on himself again. "See you later then."

"See you, Ron."

Another nod in Draco's direction and a neutral, "Malfoy," and the Weasleys moved off, toward the castle.

"Bye, Harry! Bye Malfoy!" Ginny called over her shoulder, then she said to Ron in a penetrating whisper that carried easily to Harry and Draco, "Didn't Hermione say that Malfoy has had whole _months_ of his life erased That he might even have forgotten _Harry_, if they'd done it wrong"

"Shut it, Ginny," Ron growled.

"Well, he doesn't act any different, except that he was so quiet. Even _polite_. Can you believe he actually said _thank you!_"

"_Shut it!_"

Harry and Draco stood very still until the crunch of the Weasleys' feet and the hissing of their voices had faded. Then they looked at each other and broke out in matching grins.

"Am I imagining things, or did we just hold a normal conversation with those two?" Harry asked.

"I suppose you could call it that. If two words qualify as a conversation."

"But you were so _polite_," Harry retorted, his voice rising in imitation of Ginny Weasley's high-pitched tones.

"Well." Draco couldn't decide whether to smile modestly, blush, or punch Harry in his smirking face. "I tried."

"I know." The smirk vanished, to be replaced by one of Harry's glowing looks. "And I appreciate it."

Turning away to hide the sudden flush of color in his cheeks, Draco growled, "Come on. Let's have some tea."

"With Hagrid?"

He halted his attempt to drag Harry forward and turned to face him again. "Isn't that what you want?"

"Not really. Not today."

Draco managed to hide his surge of relief behind his usual cool expression, but his voice betrayed him, warming noticeably when he said, "All right. What do you want, then?"

"Not to have to share you with anyone. Let's try the lake."

* * *

The shore of the lake was deserted – not surprising, considering that the wind was stiffening and growing colder by the minute – and they sat down very close together on the damp grass. Draco wanted to crawl under Harry's cloak with him, to steal a bit of his abundant warmth, but he opted for a dignified, if somewhat chilly, restraint. If Harry offered, he would not rebuff him, but Malfoys did not beg, even for body heat.

Draco drew his knees up to his chest and pulled his cloak around his legs, sheltering himself as thoroughly as possible from the gusts of wind. Harry sat to his right, still clasping Draco's hand and chafing it occasionally to keep the blood circulating in his stiff fingers.

"Do you want to go back inside?" Harry asked.

"I don't _ever_ want to go back inside." The vehemence in his tone surprised even Draco, and he threw Harry a startled glance, only to find the other boy staring at him in wistful, sad-eyed understanding. "What?" he demanded. "What did I say?"

"Nothing."

"You're giving me that look again."

"The one that says I really, really want to kiss you?" Harry asked, hopefully.

"No, the one that says you know more about what's going on in my head than _I_ do."

"Oh." Harry slipped an arm, cloak and all, around Draco's waist and coaxed him a bit closer. "Give me a second, and I'll switch to the kissing one."

"Harry…"

"You know where we are, don't you? This is where we had our first date. You were sitting in that exact spot when I kissed you the first time."

Draco shook his head. "That was in the hospital wing."

"You remember, do you?"

"How could I forget? Granger barged in on us and dragged you off to tell you how evil and dangerous I am."

"I didn't listen to her." Harry tightened his clasp on Draco's body until Draco was nearly in his lap. "I spent the whole time thinking how wonderful it felt to kiss you, and I didn't hear a word she said."

Draco stared up at him through his lowered lashes, hunger and pain filling him in equal measure. He could do nothing about the pain, but the hunger was something he understood, something he knew how to assuage. All he had to do was uncoil himself a bit… relax… let Harry lift him just a little…

Slowly, Draco loosened the hold of his left arm around his knees and turned within the curve of Harry's arm. His body twisted, his left arm came up around Harry's neck, and with another little tug, he was sitting in Harry's lap.

"I don't want to talk about Granger," he said, firmly.

"But you won't tell me what you _do_ want, will you?"

"Can't you guess?"

Harry shook his head, grinning, and bent to claim a kiss from Draco's upturned mouth.

It was a gentle kiss, full of golden sparks and murmured promises, but with the passion carefully reined in, and it set the blood singing in Draco's ears. He endured the torment of it for endless, hopeful minutes, until the knot of hunger in his belly became too much for him to bear, then he broke the kiss to whisper against Harry's lips, "What's happened to you, Harry?"

"What always happens to me, when I touch you." Harry stroked the tumbled hair back from his face and kissed the deep frown line between his eyebrows, then moved down to explore the hollow behind his jaw.

"No. You're different."

That got Harry's attention. He left off nibbling at Draco's neck and lifted his head to meet his gaze. They looked at each other for a long, quiet moment, while emotions and memories chased themselves through Harry's eyes – whatever else may have changed, Potter still couldn't hide his thoughts worth a damn – and a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. Finally, Harry drew in a long breath and ducked his head again, burying his face in the hair falling to Draco's shoulder.

"I lost you." A pause, while he turned his face into Draco's throat and kissed it, then he went on, "Before this, I used to wonder what I would do if you were taken away from me. I used to wonder if I could still fight… still be the person they expect me to be without you. Now I know."

"You'll always be Perfect Bloody Potter," Draco said, laying his cheek on Harry's bent head and shivering with pleasure at the caress of his lips. He lifted his own hands to clasp the back of Harry's neck and stroke his hair, and was rewarded when Harry's arm tightened possessively around him.

"No. Not alone. Not anymore." Harry pressed his lips to the pulse point in Draco's throat, making his heart pound even harder. "Now I know exactly how much you mean to me, and I'll do anything to keep you happy… keep you here."

"I was planning to stay," Draco murmured.

A slight tremor went through Harry's body. "Good."

"But you have to tell me the truth about something."

The warm, pliant, welcoming body clasped so strongly to his went suddenly rigid. Harry's head came up, and his eyes narrowed. "Is that a threat?"

"No, no," Draco waved away his suspicions impatiently, "I didn't mean it like that. I just need to know the truth."

"I'm not going to say anything that might hurt you or make Dumbledore…"

"To Hell with Dumbledore!" Draco snapped, pushing himself away from Harry and sliding off his lap. "I'm not asking you to break any of his precious rules, just to tell me – yes or no – if I've got it right."

"Got _what_ right?"

Kneeling on the grass, Draco fixed earnest grey eyes on Harry's face and asked, "Have you ever wondered if maybe this whole thing is a mistake? You and me?"

"_What!_ Why would you even think that?"

Draco shrugged, trying very hard to keep his expression neutral, not to let his mouth twitch into a frown or his eyes slide away from Harry's. "Because of who I am. Harry, what if the person you love doesn't exist? What if… the real Draco Malfoy is what his parents made him, and he's only waiting for a chance to come back?"

Draco could tell by the sick, horrified look in his eyes that he'd hurt Harry in some visceral way that he had not intended, but the other boy did not lash out at him, shout denials or rail against him. He only sat there, starting at Draco, with his soul bleeding through his eyes.

"What if I betrayed you?" Draco went on relentlessly. "What if I couldn't be who you want me to be, and I went back to Voldemort? To my parents? Could you still love me, then?"

Finally, Harry spoke, his throat working painfully to get the words out. "You wouldn't do that to me."

"Maybe not… now that you've erased my memory."

"_Bloody hell!_" Harry's hands shot out to grab him by the shoulders, clutching at him hard enough to hurt, and gave him an angry shake. "You think I let them erase your memory to keep you from _betraying me!_"

Draco made no attempt to pull away, refusing, for once in his life, to avert his eyes from the truth. "No. I think you did it so I wouldn't remember a betrayal that has already happened. So you could have the Draco Malfoy you love back again."

Harry gaped at him, at a complete loss for words.

"I've gone over and over in my mind what could have made you do it, what could have been so terrible that you couldn't even allow me to remember it. I can only come up with one thing. I betrayed you to Voldemort."

"Draco…"

"That's the only thing that makes any sense."

"No, _no!_ You've got it all backwards!" Draco winced as Harry's fingers tightened, digging into his fleshless shoulders. "You incredible git! This is not about _you_ hurting _me!_ It's about…"

"What?"

Harry gave him another shake, then let him go. His head drooped between his shoulders, shielding his face from Draco's gaze, and his voice came out sounding muffled, but Draco could hear the pain in it all too clearly. "I wish it was that simple, and all I had to do was to forgive you to make this whole thing go away. But you didn't betray me, Draco. You didn't. I swear it."

"Then what did I do that's so terrible I have to forget it?"

"It's not what you did; it's what other people did to you. What they forced you to do to save yourself and to stop Voldemort."

"You're just trying to protect me, Harry…"

"Damned right I am!" Harry shouted, furiously. "All of this happened because of me! You _lost your mind_ because of me! And I'll be _damned_ if I let it happen again!"

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. "I what?"

Harry's eyes were bleeding agony again, and the touch of their gaze made Draco flinch. "I shouldn't have said that."

"But you did. Now you have to tell me."

"I can't!" he wailed.

"I lost my mind." Draco swallowed once, painfully. "I'm crazy."

"No, you're not," Harry murmured, his hands now clasping Draco's shoulders gently, trying to draw his stiff, resistant body closer. "You never were crazy, just too badly hurt to face your own memories. That's why we took them away, and why we tried to take the emotions that went with them –the fear and pain and…"

"Guilt?"

"You _didn't betray me!_"

"Then what do I have to feel guilty about?"

"If I could tell you that, none of this would be happening. Please, _please_, if you love me at all, let this go!"

"I never said that I love you."

"Draco Malfoy, you incredible _git!_" Harry grabbed his head in both hands and pulled him into a long, deep, violent kiss. Just as Draco was beginning to thaw, to let go of his fear and resistance, to believe that he might have figured it all wrong, Harry broke the embrace and pushed his head back far enough that their eyes could meet squarely. "Sometimes, I want to wring you neck. I swear, if I didn't love you so much, I'd have killed you a hundred times over by now."

For a brief, giddy moment, Draco felt the power in Harry's hands and knew that the other boy could, in fact, snap his neck with a single movement. But at the same time, he knew that Harry wouldn't do it. Harry would never hurt him, even if he deserved it. Because Harry loved him. And in the end, maybe that was all the proof he needed that he had not betrayed that love.

Harry kissed him again, fiercely, then wrapped both arms around his waist and pulled them both up until they knelt on the grass, touching from chest to knees, their mouths a hairsbreadth apart.

"Unfortunately," Harry whispered, breath hot on Draco's lips, "I do love you, so I'll have to find something else to do with you."

Draco lifted a tentative hand to touch Harry's face, and the other boy turned to press his lips into his crystalline palm. Draco knew that he had no nerve endings in his hand, but he couldn't control the shiver of pleasure that went through him at Harry's touch or convince himself that he had not felt it.

"Right here?" he asked, his voice trembling with laughter. "In full view of several hundred windows?"

"No, I've got a better place."

* * *

"Look at the stars. They're enormous!"

Draco sat on the roof of the North Tower, wrapped in a red and gold Gryffindor blanket and Harry's best warming spell, propped against Harry's chest, his head tilted back into the taller boy's shoulder so he could look at the magnificent array of light above them. The stars looked huge tonight and very close, so close that he was tempted to reach up and catch a glittering handful, to let them spill through his adamant fingers like so many diamonds snatched from a bed of black velvet. But he couldn't bring himself to loosen the blanket or Harry's arms to free his hand. He felt too comfortable, too protected to dream of breaking the spell.

Harry stirred slightly behind him, craning his neck to look up at the stars, then down at Draco's face. "You're smiling." He ducked his head to nuzzle the hair at Draco's temple and whisper in his ear, "You look happy. Are you happy, Draco?"

"I'm warm," Draco answered, softly.

"That's it?" Harry demanded in mock dismay. "All these months, all I needed to make you happy was a better warming spell?"

"It's not the spell, you bloody great prat." Draco lay back against him, soaking up the incredible warmth that radiated from Harry's body, and murmured softly, "I've been cold for so long… down deep inside, where nothing could touch it. My mind doesn't remember being alone, but my body does, and it just kept getting colder and colder…"

"I'm sorry, Draco."

"Don't apologize. You're the one who fixed it."

"I should have done it a week ago."

Draco threw him a provocative, sideways look over his shoulder and purred, "Shag me senseless, with Dumbledore watching? Or Auntie Genie?"

"Well…"

"I didn't think so. Forget it, Harry. You aren't responsible for saving the world, or even for mending all my cuts and bruises. You'll go mad if you try."

"You're probably the only wizard in Britain who thinks I'm _not_ responsible for saving the world."

"Yes, but I'm the only one who counts," Draco retorted, smugly.

Harry let his breath out on a single whoop of laughter, then drawled, "We are pleased with ourselves tonight, aren't we?"

"A good shagging has that effect on me."

"I'll keep that in mind." After a moment's silence, Harry went on in a more thoughtful tone, "Sometimes I think I'll never quite figure you out."

"Of course not. I'm a Malfoy, and we are very complex people. Far too complex for the simple Gryffindor mind to comprehend."

"Then it's a good thing you love me for my body, not my mind."

"Do I?" Draco twisted completely around this time, letting the blanket slide from his shoulders so that the starlight shone on his pale skin and caught like gems in his hair. "I don't remember…"

Chuckling, Harry bent close to brush Draco's mouth with his. Draco's lips parted in silent invitation, and Harry leaned more eagerly into the kiss. His hands came up to clasp Draco's face, and Draco responded by looping his arms about Harry's neck. He could feel a potent mixture of lust, longing and playfulness in Harry's kiss, but Harry was still holding himself back. Draco knew why, and he was grateful for the concern that had brought on this attack of restraint, but he didn't want restraint or tenderness now. He wanted Harry – the Harry he remembered from so many spectacular nights on this tower, when nothing had yet come between them to scar Draco's face and throw shadows on their hearts.

Harry pulled back gently, his hands still cradling Draco's head between them, his thumb brushing the brand on his left cheek. Draco remained poised and still, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, savoring the taste of Harry's kiss on his lips. After a long moment, he swallowed once and whispered, "I remember that part."

"Here's the real question." Harry shifted his body closer to the other boy's while holding their faces the same scant few inches apart. "Is it a good memory?"

"Harry," he breathed, soundlessly, and his lashes lifted just enough to show Harry the gleam of hunger in his eyes. "My Harry…"

A sigh of pure delight rippled from Harry's lips as he brought them to meet Draco's. Then Draco found himself sprawled on his back on the red and gold blanket, with Harry lying half on top of him, kissing him as though it were their first night together and he had never tasted anything so marvelous in all his life. Draco certainly never had – not in his sweetest fantasies or darkest longings – and the harder Harry kissed him, the more desperately he wanted to tell Harry exactly what that kiss meant to him. What Harry meant to him.

The words rose on a bubble of aching, agonized joy inside him, rising in his throat until they choked off his breath. He tore his mouth away from Harry's for a moment and lifted his lashes to find the other boy's blazing green eyes fixed on him. They stared at each other for a breathless moment. Then Draco's eyes fell closed again and his arms tightened around Harry's neck, drawing him wordlessly down into another kiss.

**_To be continued…_**


	15. Epilogue: Portents

**Author's Note:** Hmm… This was supposed to be a _short_ epilogue, and it turned out longer than the last chapter. Oh, well, here we go anyway…

Enjoy! -- Claire

* * *

**Epilogue: _Portents_**

Harry pulled his Firebolt around in a long, sweeping turn, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. Draco must have spotted the snitch, because he had gone into a screaming dive that left Harry breathless. The Nimbus 2001 did not have nearly the speed of a Firebolt, but Draco had a reckless, neck-or-nothing style to his flying that squeezed every particle of power from the broom and then some. Watching him, Harry would never guess that his own broom could out-perform Draco's without its rider breaking a sweat.

The slanting afternoon sunlight gilded the upper benches in the stands and threw much of the pitch into shadow, but there was no mistaking the fluttering glint of gold dancing around the base of one goal hoop. Harry tightened his turn and sped down the pitch toward the opposite goal, anxious to be there when Draco made his catch.

"Hah!" Draco shouted, as he pulled up sharply and rocketed skyward again. Then, to Harry's dismay, he screamed, "_Bloody Hell!_" and made a wild snatch at the golden thing that now fluttered tauntingly away. Before he could grab it again, the snitch disappeared.

Harry arrived in undignified haste, swooping up in a spiral around Draco to shed some speed before he could fall in beside him. From the look of thunderous rage on the other boy's face, he could guess what had happened.

"The blasted thing squirmed out the side of my hand!" Draco snapped, sparing Harry the need to ask. He held up his adamant hand, fingers spread, as if in silent accusation. "How does it bleeding _know_ that I haven't got all my bleeding fingers! It's just a sodding ball with wings!"

"I told you…" Harry began, but Draco cut him off.

"I know, I know, catch it in my palm, not in my fingers. You've said it a hundred times."

"Well, then, _do_ it."

"I'm trying, you insufferable git! It doesn't _fly_ into my palm. It flies into my _fingers_, then it wriggles like a two-Sickle whore and flies _out again!_"

"Calm down," Harry said, laughing at Draco's colorful outpouring of rage. "It's a question of aim, that's all. And what do you know about the wriggling of cheap prostitutes, anyway?"

"Oh, shut up."

Harry laughed again and nudged his broom closer, until his knee pressed against Draco's. They were hovering fifty feet or more over the pitch, automatically looking everywhere for the snitch even as they talked, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean over and drop a kiss on the down-turned corner of Draco's mouth. The Slytherin grumbled sourly in his throat and threw Harry a sidelong glance full of mock annoyance – not that his frustration with his performance on the pitch today was in any way feigned. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself and the snitch, and if Harry gave him any encouragement, he'd happily spend the next hour fuming about it. But even an outraged Draco Malfoy couldn't blame Harry for his failure to catch the snitch, and Harry knew perfectly well how to defuse his anger.

They had been practicing nearly every day for weeks now, honing Draco's skills as a Seeker and trying to imprint the necessary changes to his reactions and style into his nervous system. In a burst of generosity that said more about her faith in Harry as a teacher than in Draco as a pupil, Madam Hooch had given them permission to use the school's Quidditch equipment for their practices, including the real snitch. This had opened up a whole new world of problems for the frustrated Draco.

A pine cone, no matter how skillfully maneuvered by Harry, had no wings to flutter and no impetus to escape once Draco had caught it. The snitch, on the other hand, was as slippery as a greased eel, when it sensed a vulnerability in its captor. Harry didn't know when, exactly, the snitch considered itself thoroughly caught and stopped struggling – he'd never had any trouble hanging onto the tricky little ball, so it invariably went passive in his hand the moment he snatched it – but clearly a half-grab with three fingers did not constitute a catch.

Once Draco got the pattern of striking the snitch with his palm and locking it in place with his fingers, he'd have no trouble. The problem was in training his brain, limbs and digits to do it without thinking. And in the meantime, his frustration mounted with every practice.

"Let's have a rest and wait for it to come back," Harry suggested, nudging Draco again with his knee to guide him toward the tallest seats in the stands.

Draco grumbled something under his breath and sped toward the high benches, leaving Harry to pelt after him. He was moving too fast for a clean stop when he reached the stands, but at the last second, he pulled the nose of his broomstick sharply upward and executed a tricky sort of stalling technique that resulted in his broomstick flipping out from under him and his feet slamming down on the uppermost bench. Draco caught the broom easily, swung it to his shoulder, and turned to watch Harry make a more conventional landing in smirking silence.

"Very pretty," Harry remarked, as he stepped off his Firebolt. "But what happens if the broomstick hits you in the face and breaks your nose? Or you misjudge the landing, overshoot, and end up in midair with no broom under you?"

"I never misjudge my landing."

Harry didn't bother to respond to this. Calling Draco on his arrogance only goaded him to greater, more expansive heights of self-congratulation. Besides, Harry liked watching him fly that way. His own recklessness on a broomstick was instinctive – brought out in him by the demands of the moment and the unparalleled drive to _win_ – never calculated. When not competing for a prize or fighting for his life, he was a fairly restrained flyer. Restrained for someone who could fly circles around the rest of the wizarding world, that is.

Draco, on the other hand, enjoyed pushing the limits just for the fun of watching them crumble beneath his onslaught. His flying was perfectly and precisely calculated, insane but always controlled, and he virtually never slipped. Harry suspected that Draco could have beaten him at Quidditch, at least once, if he had let go of that control for a few moments and let his instincts take over. He certainly had the skill; all he lacked was that little flash of inspiration that turned skill into magic.

As he settled onto the bench next to Draco, the Slytherin groused, "Where's that snitch? If we lose it, Madam Hooch will have our arses on toast." He cast a sidelong glace at Harry. "Or mine, at any rate. Yours she's more likely to pinch."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Honestly!"

"You sound just like Granger when you do that."

"Well, I should hope I've learned _something_ from Hermione, in all these years."

"Yes, like how to be an insufferable know-it-all."

Harry let that one pass and said, reasonably, "The snitch will come looking for us, once it figures out we've given up the chase. They hate being ignored."

"It's a ball with wings, Harry, not a house cat. You make the bloody thing sound like a pet."

"A snitch would make a fairly decent pet. It wouldn't chew on your sheets or drop feathers in your porridge."

Draco chuckled and leaned back on his elbows, tilting his head to let the sunlight fall directly on his face.

"Of course," Harry amended, thinking of Hedwig with a twinge of guilt for his ungentlemanly remark about feathers, "a snitch can't bring your mail."

"I don't get mail, anyway," Draco remarked without opening his eyes. "Maybe I'll wheedle a snitch out of my mother for my next birthday. If she's speaking to me by then."

Harry said nothing, only stared straight ahead and struggled to hold his face neutral. Draco slitted his eyes open to cast a sidelong glance at him. Neither moved for a long moment, then Draco closed his eyes again and resumed basking in the warm sunlight.

They had both grown used to these silences, painful as they were, and chose not to widen the gulf between them with questions or demands. Draco fumed at the continued refusal of Dumbledore and Madam Fox to let him revisit his memories in the Pensieve. Harry knew of his deepening anger, knew all the details of his past that were denied to Draco, and could do nothing to hurry Dumbledore's change of heart or ease Draco's frustration.

Draco had to heal. It was that simple. Until he did, no one, least of all Harry, would consider letting him see the horrors in the Pensieve. But every week that went by without Dumbledore softening made Draco's healing process more difficult. Harry sensed that they had reached an impasse. Draco could not take the final step into health and acceptance with that terrible abyss of fear and forgetfulness yawning in front of his feet, but he could not fill the hole with memory until his mind was strong enough to bear it.

"Did you talk to Dumbledore about your exams?" Harry finally asked, breaking the long silence.

"Hm. He said that I can get caught up on my class work over the summer and take the exams before the start of Fall term. I have to stay at Hogwarts anyway, and most of the professors are staying as well to help with the invasion. McGonagall's already collected a great heap of assignments for me – bless her tartan heart."

"It'll keep you busy and out from under the feet of all those disapproving parents."

Draco grimaced.

"How many families is Dumbledore figuring will actually come?" Harry asked.

Draco opened his eyes again, turning to face Harry. "You're asking _me?_ I'm not Dumbledore's confidant, or his Shining White Hero. He's not going to tell me about his precious plans."

"You know," Harry mused, "you really ought to give Dumbledore a chance. He _likes_ you, Draco."

That earned him a snort of disbelief. "And flobberworms sing madrigals."

Harry sighed and slumped back against the higher bench behind him. Sometimes, trying to make Draco see reason was just too exhausting to be believed. "Okay. I'll ask Dumbledore myself. I know that more than half of the Gryffindors are staying – the ones from wizarding families, anyway – but I haven't asked about their parents."

"The Muggle-borns are leaving?"

"Well, their folks don't really know much about Voldemort, do they? And they don't have the _Daily Prophet_ feeding them horror stories over breakfast everyday. The war probably doesn't feel too real to them."

"You'd think their children could educate them." He looked away, his face hardening. "After all, it's the Muggles who are going to suffer the most."

"I know." A familiar prickle of apprehension moved over Harry's scalp, and he frowned. "I've been trying to convince Hermione to stay. She, better than anyone, should understand how dangerous it is out there for _anyone_ allied to Dumbledore. And to me." He leaned sideways until his shoulder touched Draco's, and he added, softly, "I'm just glad I don't have to worry about you."

"You'll be here to keep me in line," Draco quipped, but his eyes did not sparkle with their usual wicked laughter.

"For as long as I can, yes."

Draco's head whipped around, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What does that mean?"

Harry swallowed painfully. "Uhh…"

"I thought the whole purpose of opening the school to students and their families for the summer was to keep Wizarding Britain's most valuable assets _safe!_ You can't tell me that all those dimwits up there," he waved in the general direction of the castle, "not to mention their families, are more valuable to Dumbledore and the war effort than _you_ are!"

"No. Well… maybe, but…"

"Harry, you _are_ the war effort. You're our only viable weapon against the Dark Lord. Dumbledore would be a fool to risk you by sending you back to those idiot Muggles for the summer. I may not think much of Dumbledore, but even I know he isn't a fool!"

"It's complicated."

"It doesn't look very complicated from where I'm sitting. You're safe at Hogwarts. You're in danger if you leave it. How much simpler can it get?"

"It's got to do with protection magic. Something Dumbledore worked out years ago, when he first took me to the Dursleys as a baby."

"Sounds like rubbish to me."

Harry threw a pleading look at Draco and saw, instantly, that the seething anger in his eyes masked something much colder and more painful. Draco was afraid for him – afraid that if he left, he would not come back. "Dumbledore would never risk my life." He slid a hand up Draco's back to clasp his neck, and he leaned closer to murmur in his warmest voice, "I'll stay as long as I can. And if I have to go, you know I'll come back."

"How do I know?" Draco sounded surly, but with an edge of fear to his voice that betrayed him.

"Because I promise you I will."

Their gazes locked for a long, burning minute, while Draco tried to drag Harry's soul out of his eyes and Harry tried to give it to him – to give him whatever he needed to calm the demons lurking in the dark places of his mind. Then Harry bent to kiss him.

Their lips touched lightly, gently, but with no reservation. Theirs was the kiss of lovers who knew every secret and every nuance of each other's bodies, every hidden wound, every subtle delight. They did not need to do more than touch – the simplest caress – to set power and passion flowing between them.

Draco's mouth opened, inviting Harry to deepen the kiss, and his shoulders twisted until his head tilted back into the hollow of Harry's shoulder. In answer, Harry looped his arm around Draco and bowed his head to lock their mouths together. An adamant hand slipped up behind Harry's neck, pulling him inexorably down into the kiss, into the bottomless well of Draco's passion and the emotion he could not name.

A sudden whirring noise interrupted Harry's concentration and brought his eyes open to find a small, golden, winged ball hovering a couple of inches from his forehead. With an irritated grunt, Harry broke the kiss and raised his head. The snitch backwinged, widening the space between them so quickly that Harry did not actually see it move, and it continued to hover. Harry could almost hear it scolding them for their lack of attention.

Draco leaned his head back, over Harry's supporting arm, to glare at the offending snitch. "Come back to gloat, have you? Filthy little…" His adamant hand shot out and grabbed the snitch. Harry heard the ball strike his palm squarely, then saw the three glittering fingers close over it, pinning it firmly in place. The snitch's wings slowed abruptly, until they were merely fanning the air.

"Nice catch," Harry said, warmly.

Draco pushed himself upright, pulling out of Harry's arms, and opened his hand. The snitch sat demurely on his crystalline palm, wings still waving gently. "Hah. That'll teach you to interrupt a pair of Seekers in mid-snog."

Harry laughed. "So what do we finish first? The practice or the snogging?"

"Neither."

Harry followed Draco's suddenly hard gaze to where two figures could be seen walking down the long slope from the castle. He could not make out their faces, but they were clearly headed straight for the pitch, and one of them was dressed in a truly eyeball-searing lime green robe. The other wore black robes that flapped ominously, like crow's wings, with every stride.

"Auntie Genie," Draco murmured, "and Professor Snape."

"What do they want?" Harry demanded, a trifle petulantly. He'd been enjoying his afternoon with Draco, especially the last bit, and he didn't relish an interruption by two people virtually guaranteed to put Draco in a bad mood.

"You can bet they aren't here to watch me catch a snitch." His eyes flicked to Harry for a moment. "Or snog you."

Harry sighed and reached for his broomstick. "We might as well go meet them. Get this over with."

Draco tucked the snitch into his pocket and climbed onto his broom. His face had closed up tight, and Harry had no idea what he was feeling as he soared away from the stands. Harry followed, letting Draco set the pace and choose their flight path.

They made straight for a point some fifty paces ahead of the approaching wizards. By the time they had alighted on the grass and dismounted from their brooms, Snape and Madam Fox were within hailing distance.

"Hullo, Nevvy!" Madam Fox called.

Draco did not return her courtesy, but demanded sourly, "What are you doing back here so soon?"

Madam Fox shook her head and made a clucking noise that reminded Harry strongly of Aunt Petunia when she'd found a spot on her kitchen counter. Then, bluntly ignoring Draco's rude question, she turned to Harry and nodded. "Good day to you, Mr. Potter. Trying to teach Draco not to fall off his broom, eh?"

Harry grinned at her. "Yes, Ma'am. He's a slow learner."

"Thank you for that, Potter," Snape said dryly, "but we came down here for a reason – nothing to do with _you_, as it turns out – and I'll ask you to spare us any more of your rapier wit."

"What reason?" Draco had his sullen face on that told Harry he was genuinely upset. He had spent a large part of yesterday shut up in the hospital wing with Madam Fox, undergoing one of her lengthy examinations, and while Harry couldn't believe she had found anything worrisome, he could understand why Draco was shaken by her appearance today. "If it's about me, then tell me and be done with it."

"It is about you." Snape pinned him with his piercing, black gaze, brows drawn together in a brooding frown. "We've been talking to Dumbledore…"

Draco stiffened. "Wait, let me guess. He wants me to sleep in a padded coffin, so I won't fall out of bed and _hurt_ myself."

"That's enough, Malfoy." Draco's mouth tightened in annoyance, but he held his tongue, and Snape went on, "Dumbledore, Madam Fox and I agree that it's time you were given access to your own memories."

At his words, Harry felt as if he'd jumped naked into the lake in the dead of winter. His entire body went numb, and the air rushed out of his lungs as his ribs contracted painfully. Rolling wide, disbelieving eyes in Draco's direction, he saw that the Slytherin had gone very still, very white.

"You may go into the Pensieve whenever you're ready," Snape said, his voice unaccountably gentle.

"But…" Harry began to protest, only to have Draco override him.

"That's it? I'm well?"

Madam Fox answered him. "No, you are not _well_ in the sense you mean it. That kind of healing takes years, my boy, and yours has only begun. But you've made a good deal of progress, and you've proven to me – to all of us – that you're intent on healing, not on hiding. You are very unlikely to suffer another emotional collapse, at this point."

"I can go into the Pensieve," Draco repeated, dully. To Harry's surprise, he didn't look eager or triumphant; he looked as though he might be sick.

"Not alone…"

"But Madam Fox," Harry broke in, "how can you be sure that his memories won't… do to him what they did the first time?"

"We can't be completely sure, of course. We can only use our best judgment." She eyed Harry thoughtfully, her wise, wrinkled face full of understanding. "The fact is that Draco will not be able to come to terms with what happened until he _knows_ what happened. And his growing resentment of those of us who stand between him and his memories is slowing his progress." Her eyes shifted back to Draco. "You're fighting me, Draco, instead of letting me help you."

"I've done everything you asked," Draco rasped out. "I even went back into the dungeons, and I've _stayed_ there, even though…" He broke off and bit his lip, his hands clenched unconsciously into fists against his thighs.

"The Slytherin dungeon is where you belong," Snape said.

Draco shot him a swift, sideways glance but said nothing. Harry knew exactly what he was thinking. _Not anymore_.

The Healer laid a hand on Draco's arm. "I know how frustrated you are. That's why I've recommended this step. I feel that it's time you knew the truth. Do you still want it?"

"Yes!"

She nodded her acceptance and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Severus has volunteered to go into the Pensieve with you, if that's what you want. Or Mr. Potter. Or me. It's entirely up to you, but you must have someone with you who's already seen those memories."

Draco turned to look at Harry, and Harry felt his stomach twist painfully. He desperately wanted to go with Draco, to protect him from the violence of his own memories, but he just as desperately wanted to avoid ever seeing those memories again. And the thought of watching them with Draco was absolutely terrifying.

What if Draco panicked while inside the Pensieve and had a relapse? What could Harry possibly do? And how would he forgive himself for letting such a thing happen _twice?_ He couldn't bear to think of it, nor could he face the possibility that he might break, himself, and leave Draco without any support in the midst of his worst nightmare. But he was equally appalled at the thought of letting Draco go into that nightmare without him.

"Harry?"

He blinked, forcing himself to concentrate on the moment, and on Draco's white, rigid face. _He's so frightened_, Harry thought. _This is all he's wanted for more than two months, but now he's scared out of his wits_.

"Whatever you want, Draco," Harry heard himself say.

Draco opened his mouth, shut it, then blurted out, "Professor Snape!"

A fist clutched at Harry's heart, wrenching a low sob from him, but whether of pain or relief he couldn't yet tell.

"I… want Professor Snape to go with me." Draco stared at Harry for a long, agonizing moment, then whispered, "I'm sorry. I can't."

Then, to his own amazement, Harry laughed. It wasn't much of a laugh, more of a croak really, but it loosened the hold of the fist around his heart and allowed him to take a deep, painless breath. "Neither can I."

Ignoring the Potions Master and the Healer watching them so intently, Harry stepped up close to Draco and put both arms around him. Draco shuddered and leaned against him, his arms slipping around Harry's waist. Harry held Draco until his shudders stilled and his breathing evened out, then he bent his head to inhale the familiar scent of Draco's hair.

"I promised you I'd take you into the Pensieve," he murmured into the soft, silver-blond strands, "and you know I never break a promise. So if you change your mind, and you want me to come, just say so."

"I won't."

Harry nodded and let go of Draco, stepping back. Snape, who had been glaring at the grass as if he could set fire to it with his eyes, moved swiftly up to loom at Draco's back. He dropped both hands to rest on Draco's shoulders, clasping them strongly, and fixed Harry with a repellant stare.

"Anytime you're ready, Malfoy."

"Let's do it now," Draco said, "before I lose my nerve."

Snape turned immediately for the castle, propelling Draco ahead of him, leaving Harry, Madam Fox and both broomsticks behind, apparently forgotten. Harry snatched up the brooms and jogged a few steps to catch up with Snape and Draco.

"Professor?"

"You're not needed here, Potter."

"Wait!"

Snape came to an abrupt halt and turned his fulminating glare on Harry. "Wait for what? More of your heroic posturing? I think we've all had enough of that for one day."

Lifting his chin defiantly, Harry gave Snape back glare for glare and said, through his teeth, "I'll go, but first I want you to put some of _my_ memories into the Pensieve."

Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Which memories would those be?" he hissed. "The scene at the Wizengamot, perhaps? Precious Potter to the rescue? You wouldn't want Malfoy to miss your greatest performance."

Harry stood his ground, refusing to back down from the venom in Snape's voice. "Yes, the trial. And the ambush of the Knight Bus. If he's going to see it, he should see it all."

Madam Fox and Snape exchanged worried glances, but Draco took the matter out of their hands. "If Harry remembers things I don't, then I want his memories too." He looked hard at his aunt, then at Snape. "You said it was time I knew the truth."

Madam Fox raised an eyebrow and quirked a familiar, ironic smile at the Potions Master. Snape threw Harry one more vicious glare, then spun on his heel and began marching toward the castle again. "All right, Potter, have it your way. You always do."

Harry scrambled after him, not sure if he had just made an incredibly noble gesture or the worst mistake of his life. Only Draco could tell him that, and only after it was too late to change his mind.

* * *

Harry sat slumped in the overstuffed chair, his eyes fixed on the fire, staring blankly at the dancing flames. All around him, the Gryffindors were celebrating the end of term at full tilt, shaking the very stones of the tower with their noise, but Harry did not hear them. He was lost in contemplation of his own stupidity and didn't notice Colin Creevey snapping pictures of Seamus and Lavender snogging, or Neville smoking at the ears from one of Dean's bungled hexes, or Ginny trouncing Dennis so thoroughly at Gobstones that he was soaked from head to foot with foul-smelling goo. 

So intent was he on his private misery that he did not look up when Ron dropped into the chair opposite him. No one else dared come near him when he was in this mood, and a short time ago, Ron would have run as fast as his legs would carry him in the opposite direction. But the events of the last few months had cemented a new kind of understanding between Harry and Ron, one that allowed for the occasional man-to-man chat, when the situation was dire enough. Harry wasn't in the mood for one now, but he didn't have the heart to openly repulse Ron, so he merely sat, staring at the fire, hoping he would take the hint and go away.

A long silence stretched between them, and still Ron did not go. Hermione came sidling over, but Ron waved her off and hissed, "Get out of it, Hermione," a sentiment Harry heartily agreed with. She stomped off, and Ron shifted forward in his chair, clearly ready to talk.

"Aren't you supposed to be practicing with Malfoy?"

Harry answered without lifting his eyes, "I was."

"What went wrong?"

The quiet concern in Ron's voice finally brought a response from Harry. He turned to stare at his friend in surprise, his eyes wary and pleading at the same time. "What makes you think anything's wrong?"

Ron rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Because you haven't looked like that since Malfoy got his marbles back, and you only _ever_ do when you're worried about him. So logic tells me that something is wrong with Malfoy and you're stewing over it. Either that, or you flunked your exams and are afraid you're going to be expelled," he amended, cheerfully.

"I didn't flunk."

"It's Malfoy, then."

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze sliding back to the fire and away from Ron's earnest face. "Would you go away if I said I didn't want to talk about it?"

"No."

"All right." Harry's voice went flat with the effort of controlling himself, and he still could not look at Ron when he said, "Draco's going into the Pensieve."

"You mean, to remember?" Harry nodded. "But I thought Dumbledore didn't want him to remember."

"He just didn't want him to try until Madam Fox said he was strong enough."

Ron frowned in thought, mental gears turning, then he ventured, "That's good news, then. They figure Malfoy's got all his oars in the water. Right? So, what's the problem?"

"Nothing much," Harry retorted bitterly, "except that he may lose his mind again, or hate himself, or hate _me_."

"Don't be daft. Malfoy isn't going to hate you."

"I put some of my memories into the Pensieve with his, Ron. I thought… I thought it was only fair that he know the whole story, including the part where I used an Unforgivable Curse on his mother."

"Okay," Ron conceded, "that's a bad one. But he's also going to know that you saved him from the Wizengamot and Azkaban, _and_ that his mum didn't give you much choice about the Curse. Trust me, Harry. It's going to take more than one little curse to turn the Ferret against you."

"I wish you wouldn't call him that."

"It's a compliment. It means that he and I are related – the Ferret and the Weasel – which I guess we are, if you count fourth or fifth cousins seventeen times removed. Isn't my mum a Black, somewhere high up in her family tree?"

Harry shrugged. He knew that Ron was trying to distract him from his brooding, but his mind would not cooperate. It kept drifting back to what he knew was happening in the hospital wing this very moment, and each time it did, his nerves stretched a little tighter and his spirits sank a little further into gloom.

Ron looked at him in fond exasperation and sighed. Dropping his attempt at humor, he asked, "Are you really afraid he's going to lose it again?"

"The things he's seeing in the Pensieve drove him crazy once. What's to stop them from doing it again?"

Ron considered that for a moment, then leaned a little closer and dropped his voice another notch to shield their conversation from the Gryffindors crowding the common room around them. "Look, Harry, I haven't asked you what happened to Malfoy, because I figured you'd tell me when you're ready. And if you don't want to tell me now, that's okay, but you have to know that you can. I won't blab it to anyone else, and I won't say anything stupid to you or to Malfoy. I promise."

"I know you won't blab it, Ron. That's not why I haven't told you."

"Then why?"

Harry swallowed nervously. "You've… started treating Draco better. You don't call him names – most of the time – and you even talk to him occasionally, like he's a person."

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes! It's exactly what I wanted, and it makes everything so much easier."

"Okay. So…?"

Harry lifted his eyes to Ron's face, meeting his gaze squarely at last, letting Ron see the doubt and fear churning inside him. "I can't go back to the way it was before."

"Why would it?"

"I'm afraid, if you know everything, you'll start hating him again."

"Come on, Harry. I'm learning to forgive Malfoy just for being Malfoy. There's nothing he could possibly have _done_ that's worse than what he _was_."

"He killed two people." Harry's quiet words brought silence in their wake, while the two boys stared at each other and the din of the party flowed around them, intruding on their notice. They both heard Lavender squeal with laughter and Hermione request, acidly, that she spare their eardrums. Harry dropped his voice, forcing Ron to lean in closer to hear, and said, "He used the Avada Kedavra Curse. That's why they took him away and put him on trial."

"Bloody Hell."

"So tell me, is that worse than simply _being_ a Malfoy?"

"It depends."

Harry blinked at him, taken aback. "On what?"

"On who he killed and why."

"The one he got with the curse was his father."

Ron gave a low whistle. "Draco was on trial for killing his own father?"

"The only lucky thing in this whole mess is that Lucius was a known Death Eater, and if anyone in that dungeon was actually sorry he was dead, they kept it to themselves. But if they'd found out about the other one…" Harry broke off and shuddered.

"Who was it, Harry?"

"Pansy Parkinson."

Ron's mouth dropped open. "_Pansy?_"

Several heads swiveled in their direction at his shout, and Harry glared furiously at him. Ron flushed and muttered, "Sorry. But why would Malfoy kill _Pansy Parkinson?_"

"It was an accident. He was running from the Death Eaters and he stumbled across her. Literally. She'd been… she was…"

"What?" Ron demanded, his voice cracking with alarm.

"They gave her to the dementors, because she tried to help Draco. He had to watch her get the Dementor's Kiss."

Ron sat back abruptly in his chair, his face going white beneath the freckles. "I don't think I want to hear this."

"She was gone," Harry went on in a fierce whisper. "Sucked out of her own body and left… empty. He couldn't stand to watch it, knowing she was being punished for trying to save him, and that's when his mind started to go queer."

"I'm sorry, Harry. I really am." The utter sincerity in Ron's voice brought an unwelcome lump to Harry's throat.

"He didn't mean to do it, Ron, I'm sure of it. He was holding her face between his hands, then he moved so fast… there was a Death Eater coming at him, and he had to get away, and he… he snapped her neck. At least, I think that's what happened. His mind was so badly fragmented by then that it was hard to tell."

"Is he going to be able to figure that out from what he sees in the Pensieve?"

"I think so."

"Bloody Hell, Harry. Bloody, bloody Hell. No wonder you're so scared."

"He wants to remember. When Snape told him he could go into the Pensieve to relive it, he didn't even hesitate. But what if he can't take it any better this time than he did before? What if he…"

"Don't say it."

"I'll go mad, if I lose him again. I know you don't want to hear that. I know you don't understand. But it's the God's honest truth, Ron. I'll go mad."

"I know. Can I ask you something?" Harry nodded. "Why didn't you go with him?"

"He wanted Snape."

"_Snape?_"

"He's probably right. It'll be easier with Snape there, and I don't know if I could stand to see it all again."

"And you trust Snape to bring him out in one piece?"

"Yes, oddly enough, I do."

"So what are you going to do? Just wait? Again?"

Harry shrugged and tried to smile. "As usual, that's all I can do."

"Boy, Harry, I wouldn't have your life on a bet."

"I thought you were jealous of me. The Famous Harry Potter."

Ron shook his head somberly. "Not any more, mate."

"Why not? Because I'm in love with Ferret Boy?"

"No. Because you never seem to catch a break. You never get to sit back and be happy."

* * *

A brooding darkness filled the tower room. The earliest stars glimmered faintly in the sky beyond its many windows, and a new moon rode above the topmost branches of the Forbidden Forest, but these distant lights only served to thicken the darkness within the stone walls. Even the many portraits hung about the room and the phoenix on his perch by the door remained silent, so as not to disturb the old wizard wrapped in thought as deep and impenetrable as the shadows about him. 

Albus Dumbledore sat behind his massive, claw-footed desk, his elbows propped on its polished surface and his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He gazed out at the stars as if he could see the answers to his many questions written in their bright patterns, but the gift of reading portents in the heavens was not given to him. He had to rely on other eyes to decipher their mysteries.

Whom did Lord Voldemort consult in such matters? he wondered, not for the first time. Did Voldemort have to rely on the powers of others, or had he learned to interpret the stars for himself? As a student, Tom Riddle had shown no particular skill at Divination or the reading of portents, but Dumbledore could not rule out the possibility that Voldemort, at the height of his powers, had exploited talents unsuspected in the boy, Tom. Perhaps his enemy gazed at these same stars tonight, seeing in them things that Dumbledore could not, weaving his plans in the belief that the very heavens promised him victory.

That Voldemort considered himself destined for victory was clear. His words during the ritual at the Giants' Dance proved as much. But Dumbledore had a few more years' experience with the vagaries of portents than his adversary, and he would not rush to any conclusion. Nor would he despair of his own victory. Let Voldemort orchestrate his plans to force his own interpretation on the stars; Dumbledore could afford to wait, let events unfold as they would. After all, he had both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy safely under his eye.

With an abrupt, decisive motion, Dumbledore passed his hand over the candles on his desk, and they sprang instantly alight. A flick of his wand produced a number of useful items, all placed neatly on his desktop where he wanted them. He unrolled a fresh piece of parchment, dipped a quill into a pot of purple ink, then closed his eyes and made a steeple of his fingers again.

The quill hovered over the parchment, poised, waiting. Dumbledore sank once more into deep thought for a long moment, while the ink started to dry on the quill's tip. Then, suddenly, the pen dipped and began to move across the page in swift, sure strokes. It wrote in Dumbledore's own large, looping, ornate hand, and it finished with his habitual flourish. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and gazed intently at the words his mind had conjured.

_Hated and loved. Coveted and spurned.  
The trophy all seek though none value it.  
The spoils of war ere the battle is fought.  
His is the sacrifice brings victory or death._

A typically oblique utterance, precisely what one might expect from the centaurs, Dumbledore thought. Fiendishly easy to bend to one's own purposes. It really came as no surprise that Voldemort had read his own victory in this, and it explained much that the Dark Lord had done of late.

Poor Draco. Dumbledore could not read these lines without seeing that slight, pale, aloof young man, with his wary, wounded eyes and his broken hand. The image saddened him, because he knew that he had failed in some essential way to win the boy's trust. Now, if the stars spoke true, Draco Malfoy was destined to be used as an instrument of war, perhaps of his beloved Harry's destruction, and Dumbledore had no means to aid him, no guidance or support to give him.

If Dumbledore read the portent aright, Draco was the 'spoils of war', the prize for which Harry would launch the final, decisive battle of this shadowy war. The entire wizarding world despised Draco Malfoy, and yet he was jealously guarded by those who had him, furiously sought by those who did not, treasured only for the power he held over the heart of Harry Potter. And now he would pay for that power.

_His is the sacrifice_.

Voldemort had clearly read Draco's death in this, but Dumbledore found something else in the words. He found hope – hope that Draco did not have to die to satisfy the stars.

_His_ is the sacrifice. Not _he_.

But this begged the question of what price he would inevitably pay to end the war. He had already sacrificed his hand, his father's life, his freedom, self-respect and sanity. And yet the war ground on, proving to those who watched the heavens that Draco had not yet made the necessary – one might say the ultimate – sacrifice. What, then, would he be forced to give in the end?

Perhaps Voldemort was in the right of it, and Draco would pay with his life. Or perhaps it was his heart the stars demanded, and Harry would be the one to die. Either way, two extraordinary young wizards would perish.

The very thought brought an ache of sorrow to Dumbledore's chest. He could not change the shape of the world, to lift Harry and Draco out of the eye of the rising storm, nor could he stand forever between them and their fates. But in the privacy of his own room, behind the lined and smiling mask of his face, he could suffer for them. And just maybe, the help of one batty old wizard would turn out to be of use to the wizarding world's bright, young heroes. Just maybe, they would all have a surprise or two for Voldemort, when the time came.

With a sudden, decisive gesture, Dumbledore swept the piece of parchment up from his desk. He rolled it into a neat scroll, then held a stick of purple sealing wax to the nearest candle to light its wick. The wax dripped thickly onto the parchment, forming a deep violet blob that gleamed darkly in the flickering light. Dumbledore pressed the seal of his ring into the wax, murmuring the words of a spell as he did so and producing a number of gold sparks. He casually ground out a the spark with his thumb that had landed on a spare bit of parchment.

Brandishing his wand, he sent the scroll sailing up to the highest shelf behind his desk. It flew into a dark pigeon hole and disappeared. With another wave of the wand, he swept away the writing paraphernalia on the desk, leaving only the branch of candles. He gazed at these for a long moment, then leaned over and carefully blew them out.

In the darkness, Dumbledore pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and crossed to the nearest window. The stars had thickened while he worked, and they now blazed with a fierce, cold brightness that seemed to taunt Dumbledore for his lack of understanding. The old wizard leaned his shoulder against the window embrasure and cocked his head back, letting the starlight fill his field of vision. And there he stood as the heavens wheeled above him, watching, waiting for the stars to form themselves into patterns he could understand. Waiting for them to give him the answers he needed.

* * *

Draco walked quietly down the corridor, his footsteps echoing slightly as he went. He was alone. The rest of the students were safely in their common rooms, enjoying a few hours of relaxation before going to bed. Only Draco still haunted the castle hallways – Draco and his memories. 

He did not know how long he had spent in the Pensieve or in the Room of Requirement afterward. There, alone in his erstwhile prison, he had pondered everything he'd seen and tried to make sense of it. Tried to find himself, the person he had known as Draco Malfoy all his life, in the rubble that was left to him.

His father was dead. His mother was… where? In Azkaban? He wondered, but he knew it did not really matter. If she walked through the door at that moment, he could not go to her. She had made her feelings about him clear when she told the Wizengamot that she would rather have him dead than in Harry Potter's bed.

Draco shivered at the memory of his mother's face as she spoke those words, cold settling into his chest as the loneliness about him thickened into visible, clinging shadow. Harry was all he had, now. Draco could no more leave him than he could stop breathing. But what did that make him, if his love for Harry had killed him in his mother's eyes? A nameless ghost, who did not exist if his lover did not see him?

He had always identified himself as a Malfoy, even when that name brought him nothing but trouble. He had taken his place at Harry's side, where he knew he belonged, and proudly declared himself a Malfoy for all to hear. But now his mother had taken that name away from him with her love, and he was nothing. Nothing but the Famous Harry Potter's ghost-lover.

He was a prisoner in Hogwarts castle, trapped here by the threat of Voldemort and the will of Dumbledore. He was a murderer, with his father's blood on his hands. He was a traitor to the Dark Lord and an outcast from the wizarding world. He was no longer fit to be called a Malfoy, but he had no other identity, no other place in this world. Except with Harry.

It was the need to find Harry that drove him at last out of the Room of Requirement and into the darkened hallways. Harry, he knew, would help him find his way out of this perilous maze. Harry would stop the ground pitching beneath his feet, or at least help him find his footing before he dashed himself to pieces on the rocks. The need to find Harry, to see and touch him, was a horrible, hot pain inside him.

He did not understand how Harry could still love him, but even at his darkest moments, Draco did not doubt him. Harry had seen everything – lived much of it – and had never wavered in his devotion to his despised, outcast lover. Harry, who always made the right choice, always fought for the light, never felt the darkness calling him the way Draco did, had seen the worst in him and forgiven it. Harry had fought for him, for _Draco Malfoy_, had stood up in front of the Wizengamot and told them that he was proud of his love affair with Lucius Malfoy's son. Harry had used an Unforgivable Curse to save him. And after all of this, knowing what Draco had done to his father and to Pansy, Harry had taken him up to the roof of the North Tower, wrapped him in a warming spell, held him in his arms and loved him.

Draco climbed stairs and walked down endless corridors, moving mechanically, letting instinct guide him when his mind was too dazed and battered to think clearly about which hallway led where or how many staircases he needed to climb. He had walked the path to the Gryffindor common room so many times that his feet could find it all on their own. At the top of a flight of broad marble stairs, he saw the statue of Lachlan the Lanky and knew that he'd reached the seventh floor at last.

He did not let himself run down the last, long stretch of hallway. Nameless and homeless he might be, but he still had some pride, and he would not arrive at Harry's door panting and red-faced. Lifting his head at its usual, arrogant angle, he straightened his shoulders and paced calmly down the length of the corridor until he reached the Fat Lady's portrait. She regarded him with a pursed, sour face, telling Draco that she knew precisely who he was and did not approve of this brazen assault on her domain.

"Password, please," she said, loftily.

"I don't know it," he answered. He did, of course, but he was not about to open the portrait and step into the Gryffindor common room.

"Well, then. You'd better run along back to your dungeon, hadn't you."

Ignoring her frigid manner and the affronted look she threw him, he stepped up close to the portrait and knocked firmly on the frame. There was a long pause, then the painting began to swing outward, and Draco stepped back from the rush of noise and light poured from the opening. There, standing in the portrait hole, was Neville Longbottom.

Longbottom's jaw dropped at the sight of the boy standing outside. Malfoy did not strain himself by trying to guess how he must look to the Gryffindor. It didn't matter whether Longbottom was shocked by his appearance or simply by the fact of his presence. Nothing mattered, except that he find Harry. Now.

"Is Potter here?" he asked, quietly.

Neville closed his mouth with a snap, hesitated, then nodded. Turning back into the common room, he called, "Harry! It's for you!"

A burst of laughter answered him, but Draco did not hear Harry's voice in the general noise. He took another half step backward, distancing himself from all that life and hilarity. Longbottom stayed in the portrait hole, staring at him, his round face full of doubt and something that might have been concern if it had been anyone other than Draco Malfoy he was looking at.

Finally, the voice he had been aching to hear came from just inside the room. "Who is it, Neville?"

Longbottom nodded toward Draco and moved to one side. Another figure appeared in the portrait hole, and Draco felt a piece of himself slip back into place at the sight of him. Harry. Beautiful, rumpled, distracted, frowning Harry. Predictable. Dependable. Always where Draco needed him to be at the crucial moment. Always with that flare of light and hunger in his eyes when he looked at Draco.

Harry climbed through the hole in a flash and took a step toward him. Then suddenly, maddeningly, he stopped. He just stood there, hands hanging at his sides, waiting.

For what? Draco wondered. Why didn't Harry come to him? Why didn't he take him in his arms and tell him that everything would be all right? Why did he just stand there with that terrible longing in his face and tears in his eyes? Why, why, _why_ didn't Harry hold him?

And then it occurred to Draco that Harry was waiting for him to make the first move. Harry didn't know what Draco would allow, didn't know that the need to feel those arms around him sat like molten lead in his stomach, weighing him down and tormenting him, that the memories burned in his head 'til he wanted to scream, and that nothing would be right again until Harry touched him.

Harry – dear, stupid Harry – was waiting for Draco to give him a sign.

Slowly, as though he were fighting the world's strongest leg-locker curse, Draco took a step forward. Only one. He couldn't manage any more than that, but it brought him close enough. With Potter's desperate eyes still on him, he leaned forward until his forehead rested in the hollow of the taller boy's shoulder. Then he closed his eyes and let out his breath in a long, soundless sigh.

Potter's arms came up and around him, drawing him close. Warmth wrapped him like an invisible blanket. Lips rested against his hair. It was everything he needed, everything he wanted, his entire life right here, in the circle of Harry Potter's arms. He did not move, did not speak, and gave Harry no sign of what was happening inside him. But in the endless silence, his heart quietly came unstuck.

The clasp of Harry's arms tightened fractionally. Draco let his weight settle against Harry's body, pain and fear draining out of him in the realization that he was safe. He was home.

**_Finis_**

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**Final Note:** Well, here we are at last. The end of the story. I hope you all enjoyed it, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to read it! Your comments, reviews, nagging and encouragement kept me going through the rough bits and made this story a joy to write.

I am now working on Part Three of the epic, which deals with the centaurs' portent and Draco's role in the war. The working title is _Sacrifice_, but I'm hoping to come up with a better one.

I don't know when I'll be ready to start posting it, but I'll be happy to let you know when it's up. Just drop me an e-mail and tell me you'd like to be on the notification list (you can get my e-mail address from my profile).

Thank you all again. It has been a pleasure sharing Harry and Draco's tribulations with you!

All the best,

CorvetteClaire


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